Jax' House

Chapter 1

It was the weirdest thing that had ever happened to Jack O'Hagan.

They’d just arrived in Tregenwyth and, with the furniture van protesting around the tight corners behind them, they were heading for their new house. And as they manoeuvred down the narrow street, Jack felt an overpowering sensation.

He’d seen this place before. The rugged contours of the houses on each side of the road, the bleak way they crowded together blocking the light and warmth, the sombre shadows, the drunken steepness of the hill, they all sent the same feeling through him, and as they threaded their way further towards the harbour, the feeling grew.

When his dad pointed out the house they were moving to, he caught his breath. Everything about it was so familiar. The narrow frontage and the way it stretched to the sky, the manner in which it shouldered between the other houses; he recognised the random pattern of windows and the cornice running below the roof. He knew the portico and the steps leading to the front door. It was all so much a part of him, and yet, as far as he knew, he’d never set foot in Tregenwyth in his life.

His dad and mum had been here.

They’d made several visits in search of their new house, but he’d always stayed back in Stevenage, lodging with a friend.

He didn’t want to move, and he'd made a point of not looking at any of the photos Dad took. He liked Stevenage. He was happy with his mates at school and the facilities of a big town.

Tregenwyth was a backwater, remote from anywhere and hundreds of miles from his friends.

He didn’t speak as he dragged himself out of the car, even though his dad and mum pressed him for an opinion.

He followed Dad through into the gloom of the passageway and then he stopped. He knew the inside of the house as if he'd lived there.

The door to the left would lead into a dining room and the far end of the passage marked the entrance to what would be a large, rambling kitchen with an exit through to a back yard. The yard cut into a sheer cliff of rock and shale. There was a set of twisting stairs to his right, and they would lead to dark landings and rooms looking as though they’d been chucked out at random with not one at the same level as another. He knew the stairs' ultimate location was a small gloomy attic under the eaves.

There was a larger room, like a lounge, to his right, and in the passage, under the stairs, a door that looked as if it opened onto a cupboard. But he knew it wasn’t a cupboard. It marked the descent to a cellar.

“Come on then, Jacky boy. Let’s have it. What do you make of the place now you’ve seen it?” his dad said and he swung around. His dad was standing in the passage, framed by the open door, an excited grin on his face, his green eyes sparkling.

“It’s a dump,” he said. “It’s a rickety, musty rat-hole and I can’t think why you and Mum wanted to come here. We had a perfectly good house in Stevenage, with all mod-cons.”

His dad was a squat man, square faced, with red hair. Irish through and through and proud of it, and to look at, Jack was his stamp, although Jack was smaller. He was thirteen and hadn't yet reached the turning point of an adolescent growth spurt. He had the smooth, unlined complexion of youth, while his dad’s face was lined and weather-worn. Dad's hair was peppered with grey, but Jack knew the genetic map would drag him, kicking and screaming, to look just like his father in thirty years time.

“It’s a bit run down,” Dad said. “It hasn’t been lived in for a couple of years. That’s why it smells musty, but it’s nothing that a good airing and lick of paint won’t put right.”

He came down the corridor and put an arm on Jack’s shoulder. “Come on, son. This place has got atmosphere. It’s got character.”

“Yeah,” said Jack, pushing the arm away. “So did Jack the Ripper have character, and a cesspit’s got atmosphere, but I haven’t got to fall in love with them, have I?”

“What’s he on about?” Mum said, pushing through the door. She was grasping two heavy cases, and they hung like pendulums from her arms. She put the cases down and stared at Jack.

“He thinks it’s a dump,” Dad said.

His mum grunted. “Teenage strop. They think they’re modern and ‘cool’, these kids, but they’re stuck in the conventional mud. They’ve got no sense of adventure. He’ll be okay when he’s picked up with a few mates and sussed out a girl or two.”

She stomped back down the steps, calling over her shoulder: “And get him to take those cases up to our room. The removals men are champing at the bit out here and I’ll need the passage cleared.”

For the next hour Jack helped with the removals, but with all the rooms it was the same. He knew what was behind every door. When he pushed through to the kitchen with a box of Dad’s precious cooking utensils, he nearly dropped them. The elongated room with its windows and its back exit leading outside, was exactly as he knew it would be, right down to the cheerless yard and the wall of sheer cliff. There was a heavy mix of honeysuckle and clematis creeping up the wall. He hadn’t anticipated that. He also had to admit that, in the confused images infesting his brain, the green-slimed concrete surface and the slate-blue drain in the centre of the yard didn’t quite chime, but everything else was just as he knew it would be.

As his dad staggered down the passage with a vacuum cleaner, Mum shouted from the front door. “There’s a cupboard under the stairs. The cleaner can go in there.” And, without thinking Jack said:

“It’s not a cupboard. It’s stairs. There’s a cellar down there.”

His parents were slightly nonplussed because when Dad opened the door, that’s exactly how it was.

“How did you know that?” Dad said.

But Jack just shrugged. “Just knew, didn’t I?”

He wasn’t going to explain. There was no point. His parents wouldn’t probe. They were too obsessed with each other and their new house.

Dad was a twenty-first century man – a house-husband with far too much of a feminine side for Jack’s liking, pernickety about tidiness, with a love of cooking and a domesticity that made Jack cringe.

He wrote the occasional book, and articles for some journals, and called himself a freelance writer.

It was Mum who earned the cash. She was a doctor, and it was because of her they’d moved to Tregenwyth. She’d been given the post of Medical Registrar at the hospital in nearby Polgarthen and coming to Cornwall was completely their thing.

They were obsessed with everything about it, from the fishing boats and the white cottages clinging to plunging hills and cliffs, right down to the acres of sea. They loved the quaint pubs and craft shops clustered around the harbours. They loved it all, including this weird, rambling shack that was to be Jack's enforced habitat from now on.

Mum’s main reaction to his prediction of a cellar, was to ignore it and demand Dad’s assistance in moving a dresser, shouting as she blustered through to the dining room: “If there’s a cellar, things like the vacuum cleaner can go down there. You take it down, Jack, and then give the removals men a hand with the settees and the easy chairs. Tell them to put them in the lounge.”

The cellar had all the characteristics of any cellar. It was cold and musty, draped with cobwebs and littered with debris. There were dark corners where the single light bulb, the sole source of illumination, never reached.

Dust, dampened to a muddy slime, coated the earth floor, and the walls had, at some time, been whitewashed. Now there were huge scars where the whitewash had fallen away and large scabs of encrusted sea-salt seeped through the stonework.

As he stood there, resting the vacuum cleaner by his side, the silence was grim, but then he became aware that it wasn’t silence all.

He thought, at first, it was the sound of blood rushing in his head like you get when you hold a seashell up to your ear; but it wasn’t. Beneath the cellar floor he could hear the sea. There must be caves down there that led directly to the coast… and all of a sudden he realised – he’d known there would be caves. It had been burned into his memory from… When?

It wasn’t like déjà vu.

With any kind of déjà vu there was a nagging sensation that something had happened before, but the feeling only came after the thing had happened. With déjà vu he’d never been able to anticipate things, not like he was doing since he arrived in Tregenwyth.

Suddenly he dashed up the stairs and out into the passageway, pushing past the removals men.

“I’m going out,” he shouted.

“But we need you,” Mum yelled. She was calling from the dining room. “There’s still more furniture to bring in. There are boxes to store and trunks that need unpacking.”

Nothing, though, would induce him to stay in the house a moment longer. “I said I’m going out,” he repeated. “I need a break, okay?”

“We’ve only just come. It’s a bit early for a break,” Dad said. “Get the unpacking done first, and then we’ll all go out.”

“It’s your house,” he retorted. “You do the unpacking. I'm going out now.”

The removals men looked at each other, but he ignored their knowing nods and their eyes flashing hints about self-willed teenagers and he pushed into the street. “I’ll be back to give you a hand when I’ve had a breather, okay?” he shouted.

It wasn’t entirely the breather he’d hoped for though, because the whole village seemed to have the same familiarity. He knew the contours of the cliffs and the dimensions of the harbour. He recognised the smell of the salt in the air and the raucous screech of seagulls. He was familiar with the way they wheeled and dived. It seemed to be part of his psyche and he couldn’t understand why.

He didn’t always recognise the detail. It was a bit like it had been in the backyard. The rows of brightly embellished shops and the boats rocking in the gentle swell – motor launches, yachts and the fishing boats – and the general feeling of cheerful bustle that always went with a holiday resort, none of these matched what he understood about the place, but the sense of warmth and well-being did ease his anxiety.

He sat on one of the seats positioned around the jetty and let the chatter and laughter of holidaymakers wash over him. The boats were lulled by the undulations of the harbour and he took in their fragmented reflection, glinting a pallet of colour onto the water. He looked at the cottages, nestled into the undergrowth of the hillside and somehow, the atmosphere of the place subdued his turbulent mood. It was almost at a level he could manage, and he had to concede that if it wasn't for the sickness of the house, he might possibly get used to living down here. After a while, he was even beginning to figure out what the attraction was for his parents. There was just enough that wasn't familiar to ease the feeling of menace, and soon the heat of the sun began to relax his body. He breathed the sea's ozone. It was invigorating, giving him the slightest inkling of wanting to be part of the holiday atmosphere.

But he didn't want to go back to the house.

There was some kind of nightmare going on back there and he couldn't understand anything that was happening. He knew he had to go back though and eventually he dragged himself away from the seat and climbed the hill.

But as soon as he did, the tall buildings on each side of the road obliterated the magic and warmth of the harbour, and the easy-going atmosphere of the seaside resort gave way once more to bleakness, and the feelings of premonition and déjà vu filled his head again.

Chapter 2

Jack hoped that the intimation of the house would fade as he became more familiar with the place.

Mum started work in Polgarthen and Dad began imposing the O’Hagan touch on the house, cleaning rooms, arranging furniture and establishing himself in the kitchen.

Neither of his parents seemed to have the least inkling of the weird abnormalities that had made such an impact on Jack, and for him, all the hopes that familiarity would ease the tension were dashed daily.

In fact, everything about the house seemed to be careering in the opposite direction. He began to sense there was a knowledge linked to the place that had been burned into his psyche from before he was born, and it was as if the building had two existences – the house as it was now and another house – the one in his head, which had the feel of another time about it or else an existence in a parallel world.

As the days groped their way towards the end of the second week, he became even more conscious of the demarcations. The strange 'power' inhabiting the house was intensifying. The feelings weren't tangible, but sometimes when he walked into a room, he felt as if he'd been ambushed. He sensed the room had been displaced. All Dad's changes were beginning to be familiar enough, with the furniture his parents had brought down from Stevenage arranged to their liking, but the sight sometimes took him by surprise. It felt as if none of it should have been there. He had no vision of what should replace it; it was just that this twenty-first century version of the room was wrong and the force of its incongruity pounded in his head.

Then, one morning, he became aware of three more things about the house, and none of them did anything to ease the tension.

He had been sent to the cellar to fetch the steam floor mop, and being sent on an errand didn't put him in the best of moods, because it was clear his father had every intention of forcing him – alpha male from the top of his head to the end of his tightly honed toenails – to use the mop on the kitchen floor. His dignity was feeling violated and he was on a deliberate 'go slow'. He was hoping to win a small victory by riling his pathetic cleanliness-obsessed father. But, if he hadn't been so slow, he might not have noticed that something unusual was going on right under his feet.

As he moved the objects blocking his access to the mop, he was constantly aware of the muffled malaise of sea noises in the caverns. Then… his movements shuddered to a frozen stop. He realised the noises roaring in the background of his consciousness weren't just sea noises. He could hear voices in the cavern – unclear, because of the thickness of the rock between him and the caves – but there were voices, and they were raised and angry. They seemed to go on too, in a tirade that made his blood chill.

In view of the other things that had happened, his first instinct was to suspect what he was hearing might not be real. It may have been part of that other existence… and the very moment he heard the voices, he became convinced that somewhere in the cellar, there was an entrance to those caves. The third discovery came immediately on the heels of this realisation. His eyes glimpsed a key just to his left, hanging from a heavy butcher's nail. He'd never noticed it before and somehow, the sight seemed to encapsulate all the conflict of the house.

It was hanging there in the present, but he knew the butcher's nail must have been rammed into that wall centuries ago. He half suspected the key might unlock the entrance to the caves, and immediately, he grabbed it from the wall and shoved it into his pocket.

Then he stared. He could still hear the voices and he was growing more conscious that these, at least, might not be part of the déjà vu. They seemed more immediate than déjà vu and if they were happening now, it meant something was going on in those caves at this very moment; a fact that was as unnerving as all the weird premonitions of the past.

He grabbed the steam mop and made it two-at-a-time out of the cellar.