Chapter 2

The House on Glynnville Terrace

We’d looked at five houses in Gardens, the last such a dismal dump I’d told the estate agent to drive on without bothering to stop. But the double-storey house on Glynnville Terrace catches my fancy the moment the car halts outside.

Firstly, the placement, within spitting distance of the Gardens Centre, appeals to me. I can already envision myself strolling up the road for an early morning espresso.

Secondly, the street—the entire block opposite the row of double-storey Victorian houses—is taken up by a seminary school for girls. Call me a pervert, if you will. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I like my cheap thrills, especially since the balcony faces row upon row of classroom windows.

Thirdly, the place only has one door fronting the street—a definite plus for safety reasons—and sports heavy burglar bars and a security gate on the ground-floor door and window. No one will be paying me any unexpected visits and, if someone does, I’d hear said individual a lot sooner than that person would be able to reach me.

Lastly, the place has presence. It’s old. Yes, the red paint is peeling and the white ornamental ironwork needs a smidge of attention, but it oozes character.

My estate agent, Muffin-top—for the life of me I can’t remember her name—pulls up the handbrake. “I didn’t want to waste your time with this one, James, but we’ve looked at all the others falling within your price range. We’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel with this one, I’m afraid. After this, you’ll have to start looking in other areas, like University Estate or Woodstock. Both neighbourhoods are on the up, you know?”

“Let’s go in, anyway, shall we?” I beam at her and she turns away from me hastily. She doesn’t like me. I unsettle her. She may have read the article in You magazine where some silly DTP operator comped my eyes red and tinged my skin green. Blond and podgy, she’s trying to look sexy in clothing that would look better on a woman half her age. Low-slung hipster jeans do not go with muffin tops.

Number seventeen’s windows are shuttered upstairs, some of the slats skew. The bottom windowpane on the ground-floor sash window is cracked. Muffin-top struggles with the key to the security gate and she jerks when I tap her on the shoulder then take the bunch of keys from her.

It’s not just me. The house gives her the creeps because she keeps looking at the door then turning away. I’d love to know why. It’ll be dark inside, and the fact the sky’s filled with low, bruise-coloured clouds won’t help the light situation and the brooding mood this day holds.

The lock is tricky but I get the gate to swing open with a rusty squeal. The front door is stuck in the frame and I have to give it a good shove with my shoulder to get it to budge. However, I give too much muscle and the door flies into the wall, ricocheting back at me.

“Careful!” Muffin-top squeals.

I ignore her and step inside. A shit-load of mail litters the floor. No one has come in for a long time. Most of the letters are addressed to a Mr D Ward. How appropriate. Mr Howard Phillips Lovecraft would approve.

The electricity isn’t working and I look askance of the estate agent when I flip the switch and nothing happens.

“We’ll get that sorted. No worries.” She frowns, and her gaze keeps darting hither and thither.

The place is huge. A long passage from the front door terminates in a workroom which opens onto a small courtyard overrun by Port Jackson and dead vegetation. Number seventeen will suit my needs; I know this already. On the ground floor, two large rooms lead off on my right from the passage. One is suitable as an intimate lecture room because its double doors open onto the courtyard, which would be perfect for a late-summer barbeque. If I bothered inviting anyone around. The other, the first as I enter from the street, will make a good office and be an excellent place to store books.

“Oregon pine floors,” Muffin-top says when we ascend the creaking staircase. Another long corridor upstairs runs the length of the building. On one side is a bedroom and a bathroom. For some reason the kitchen is upstairs, but Muffin-top assures me I can convert the work room if need be. Then there’s another two bedrooms before we reach the door leading from the last room to the balcony. This house offers more space than I need and will most likely cost more than I can afford. Why the hell is she even showing this to me?

“What’s the rent?” I ask.

“Three thousand rand a month.”

“You’re joking, right?” It’s a steal. “Why didn’t you show me this place sooner? You could have saved us a lot of bother.”

She can’t look me in the eye. “Take it or leave it.”

“Let me take another walk through.” I’ve already made up my mind.

“I’ll wait in the car.” She hurries downstairs. Gods, she is jumpy. She can’t get out of the place fast enough.

Without Muffin-top’s twittering and the crackle-fizz of her agitation, it’s easier for me to gain a real sense of number seventeen’s atmosphere. I like it enough to commit to a year-long lease on the spot. High ceilings have been decorated with ornamental floral mouldings. The floors are heavily pitted and scarred by the passage of many feet, the wood a uniform red-gold sheen under the thick layer of dust.

Beneath the physical aspects lies the house’s aura, a hundred papery voices whispering simultaneously. People have lived here. They’ve died here. If I narrow my eyes, I can almost see shadows slipping at the edge of my vision. Some would be tempted to call this haunted, but for me, it’s just right. This might be a contributing factor to why the place has been empty for so long.

Their loss, my gain.

Synchronicity strikes when least expected it. That’s what happens when one messes with the threads of one’s Wyrd. I discover a newspaper in the kitchen, a community paper for the area, and it’s open on the socials page, dated to about a month ago, June. Ordinarily I’d not pay the papers any heed unless there’s an article concerning my interests, but two familiar faces catch my eye. My heart lurches and I’m short of breath. Gabby and Bodhan smile back at me from the yellowing paper. It’s dated three months ago.

Gabrielle Hart and Mikhail Bodhan are pleased to announce their engagement. The couple has recently bought and restored a historical Tamboerskloof home. They are expecting their child in…

I’ve read enough and sweep the newspaper onto the floor, a bitter taste in the back of my throat. Why does this upset me so much? It’s not as if I didn’t know they were involved.

“You knew it was over,” The Burning One tells me in a dry, disembodied whisper.

I didn’t know about the child. It takes me a few minutes to get my breathing under control.

“You’re the one who pushed Gabby into Bodhan’s arms. It’s your fault.”

If she’d really wanted me, she would have stayed. Why hadn’t Bodhan said anything when he’d discovered her pregnancy? Gods… I last spoke to him a month ago. No wonder he’s been so distant.

Then another thought occurs to me and it’s not one I’d like to dwell on.

“You do the maths.”

That week before she left, we’d been rather occupied with each other, screwing like horny teenagers on MDMA. Was she even on birth control? I don’t remember. And we certainly weren’t always careful…

My knees give in and I clutch at the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to vomit. A very good chance exists that the child is mine. It would be born soon. It may even have a name.

The implications are dizzying. I shiver from more than the midwinter chill.

“Pull yourself together, old man,” I tell myself. If there were a chance the child was mine, Gabby would have called. She must have known when she held vigil while I lay in hospital. Why hadn’t she mentioned it then?

A deep, ragged breath does wonders for me and I gather my emotions, feeling at once nauseated and strangely relieved, as if a door has been closed permanently. It’s time to move on.

Really.

Another walk through the echoing rooms confirms this is indeed the place I’d like to call home. I’m tired of staying in the lodgings in Muizenberg; tired of driving to town with a pick-up truck full of books. This is the right thing to do, to start making a footprint in the real world again.

Before I leave, I go outside into the courtyard again. A thick layer of cloud shrouds Table Mountain’s looming presence, and tiny pinpricks of moisture play on my exposed skin. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sky. Deep inside, my other self stirs in agreement with my intention to set down roots here.

When I open my eyes half a minute later, I see the black dog. The creature isn’t truly there but it’s more solid than the deep shadows of the doorway. Glowing red eyes meet my own before the apparition vanishes, slipping sideways as if it never was. To be honest, it happens so quickly I’m tempted to write off the visitation as a product of my imagination. More randomness. I haven’t seen one of these in ages—a guide between the worlds of dreaming and waking.

Muffin-top doesn’t notice me locking up the place. She’s too busy on the phone, and I catch a snippet of her conversation as I approach her silver VW Polo.

“Oh my God, he is so...