The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

Nevertheless, when she reached out and pushed the door slowly back on its hinges, her hand trembled. It was at times like this that she almost wished she had a dog. From where she stood, all she could see was the narrow hallway and a swathe of the living room opening out at the end. She strained to listen. Nothing. Tentatively, on calcified knees, she skulked along the hall, cursing inwardly as the damp soles of her trainers insisted on making tiny squeaking sounds every time they pressed on the lino, grinding in her own ears like the string section of an orchestra warming up.
    Pausing at the end of the passage, she stretched out her neck so she could peer fully into the living room, every muscle coiled ready for flight like a skittish cat. Everything looked peaceful and undisturbed, just as she remembered leaving it. She began to relax a bit. Maybe Cass hadn ’t closed the door properly? Still, wouldn’t hurt to give the lodge a once over. The oblong kitchen, with its pine cupboards and large solid wooden table looked bright and cheerful in the sunlight which blazed through the French doors that led out into the rear garden. Apart from the dirty crockery piled high in the sink and overflowing along the worktop, vying for space between discarded cereal packs, fallen granules of sugar and a half empty bottle of milk that was probably beginning to curdle by now, there was nothing threatening. Nothing looked as though it had been touched; not that you would expect an intruder to wash up and clear away though would you? Laying her carrier bag on the table, she cocked her head, straining her ears into the silence once more. It felt as though the silence was listening with her.
    So far, so good. She was breathing easier now and her knees moved freely as she turned and strode back through the living room, heading for the staircase. Her kneecaps locked when she was half way up the stairs. Above her head a floorboard creaked. Every instinct urged her to flee, but her shock was like an opiate as it gushed through her veins, and her limbs wouldn’t, or couldn’t, obey. She wasn’t alone. A frenzied stallion reared up and beat its hooves against her ribcage in panic. Then, almost instantly, the lathered, panting beast exploded from her chest, discharging from her tongue as a scream, when a voice called out behind her. “I’m back.” Cold fingers clamped around her throat and began to choke her.
    Somehow she managed to whirl round, the whites of her eyes opaque as they started from their sockets, her back pinned to the wall like she was some kind of helpless bug stuck to a dollop of sticky jam. She didn ’t know who was the more shocked; Dick Swindon, the plumber, or herself as he dropped an armful of copper pipe on the floor, the clanking and clattering of metal adding to the intrusion of her cowardly screech within the confines of the enclosed stairwell.
    “ Didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs. Noble,” the plumber told her in a slow drawl, regarding her narrowly as though she was some raving psychopath, as he shoved a finger in one ear and began wriggling it around, as though trying to dispel the buzzing sound that was still vibrating painfully in his inner ear chamber.
    “ You scared the living daylights out of me,” Meli squealed furiously, the sounds forced to emerge down her nasal passages. “How did you get in here?” Realising that it was her own fingers tightly locked around her windpipe she forced them to unclamp before they throttled her. As she dropped them to her sides, where they hung like steel girders, her lungs snatched a deep, shaky mouthful of air, sending a rush of blood upwards into her head, making her cheeks burn; but it wasn’t just the influx of oxygen that coloured her cheeks. She felt downright stupid and embarrassed by her wimpish conduct. She was aware that above her the mysterious floorboard creeker had appeared.
    “ What’s going on?” The voice asked.
    Peeling herself from the wallpaper, Meli glanced upwards and found herself looking at a younger replica of Dick: unruly mop of red hair over a winter pale complexion with a scattering of freckles.
    “ That’s Tony, my son,” Dick introduced him. “He’s come to give me a hand.”
    Feeling uncomfortable, sandwiched by the two men, one at each end of the staircase, Meli marched down the stairs, head held high as she brushed past Dick, carefully negotiating the sprawled pipes. It would be unbearable if she humiliated herself