Kelso's House

Legislative manuscripts and books of law line the shelves. In front of the solicitor is the will and last testament of Mr Bankcroft’s stepfather. 

‘Mr Bankcroft, as you can see here you’ve been left the estate of Mr Kelso.  As discussed very little has been left as to why he’s left this property to you, but he has left a note.  Perhaps it would explain more.’
Mr Bankcroft looked at the envelope, it looked cheap, the kind his stepfather bought in bulk like so many other things.  He pulled the letter out and read it. His mouth let out a wry smile. 

‘Well what is it?’ Mrs Cecilia Bankcroft pulled on his elbow. 

‘He says we’re allowed the house as long as we don’t take down the picture of his mother.’
‘What? That’s it? Did he not say anything else?’

‘Only that we’re allowed the house if we keep his mum up on the wall.’
‘How are they going to police that?  Can you police that?’ Cecilia looks directly at the solicitor. It was the first she heard of any of this.
‘Well I’m not sure it’s a stipulation that can be policed.  Even if you do take the picture down, it’s highly unlikely anyone will take the property away from you.’
‘See Albert, we can take the picture down.’
‘Hold your horses, dear. That may be so, but it was his last wish. Yes, he was a little, odd. But we should at least respect his wishes.’
‘From a legal standpoint there isn’t much we can do. The letter isn’t a legal contract, so it looks like, picture or no picture you have yourselves a new house.’
‘Did you hear that Albert?’
‘Yes, dear.’

Driving into the old village town, the locals look upon the married couple.  Bushes wall the local church and small streams of water run besides the roads, wildlife appears unabashed, approaching the local villagers. 
‘Gosh Albert, it’s so nice here.  I had no idea your stepdad lived in such a lovely area.’
‘It is scenic isn’t it?  
‘Don’t get yourself too comfortable dear, last I remembered he was a fantastic hoarder.’
‘There’s always a catch.  No matter, we’ll clean out the house and then we can make it our own little haven.’

‘All with an picture of his mum.’
‘We are not keeping that picture.’

‘It was a dying mans last wish.  Besides, my mother loved him so it’s only fair to him that we at least try to keep his wishes.  He did give us a house.’
‘Oh fine.  When you put it like that, you do make a strong point.
‘Look Albert, it’s our new home!’
The house was covered in vines and overhanding bushes, blocking the pathway into the house.  It was smell, semi-detached, with the shrubbery it looked like it was hiding itself from the world.

The stone had blackened with age and lack of care interlacing with decayed vines branching like fingers over the windowpanes. 
Albert tried to look through the window, using his oversized wool jumper to wipe away the dirt and condensation. 
‘How long has this place been empty? It’s a ghost house.’
‘John moved out over five years ago.  But it belonged to his mother. There was a time, a little while before I met you where I lived in the spare room.  It was before my own Ma had her own place and she lived with him.  The entire house made me feel uneasy.  It always felt like his mum was still there.  You would be spending an afternoon reading a journal and suddenly you’d feel breathing down your neck. I swear she never left the old place.’
‘You never told me that, Albert.’
‘Well there’s a few things you’ve yet to get out of me.  But all of that, everything I feel comes down to the clutter. It reaked of her. Once everything’s out of there we’ll be able to make it our own.  We can’t turn down a free house.’
‘Oh goodness, not at all.’
Mr and Mrs Bankcroft had already entered the living room as they suddenly found themselves in the middle of Mr Kelso’s house.
‘I must admit Albert, this isn’t as awful as I was expecting.’ Cecilia looked over the walls, china plates hung with old photographs of babies, children, horses all collaged together.   Bookshelves were stacked, but with books that looked like they were hardly used or relevant.  Titles such as British Road Maps 1967, Encyclopaedia of British trains, and there was much train paraphernalia in the house.  The air smelt of damp wallpaper and yellowed newspapers. There was something in the air that stuck on the back of the throat.  An welcome breath that tried hard to suffocate but just can’t find the grip.  And there, on an empty wall in the dining area was the picture of Ms Kelso.  She sat with a rain protector hood and with a blanket keeping her warm on a boat in the middle of a lake.  She was smiling at the camera.

‘I’m calling the decorators.’  Cecilia said as Mr Bankcroft began to box away the old positions of John Kelso and his mother.   Ms Kelso’s smile became a more a grimace with each item boxed away.

The decorators came and went, along with the old wallpaper and the stale smell the begged to strangle, in their place where clean carpets, fresh wallpaper and an empty spacious house.  And as promised Ms Kelso hung on the wall.  The river where she sat more turbulent, and the sky ever so slightly darker, it’s funny, Mr Bankcroft thought, how a picture can look so suddenly different when you decorate your house. 

When the couple had dinner Cecilia felt eyes on her, judging how she ate, what she was wearing.  How she had put on some extra puppy fat.  No one had spoken to her, but she could hear it.   Mr Bankcroft but it all down to fancy. Surely, he thought, it was just the atmosphere of the house, once they had settled in and truly made it their own it would all be fine.  No one really feels like they own their own house in the first few days of moving in. 

All the while Ms Kelso smiled. 
‘Did she always show her teeth?’ Cecilia asked.

‘I think so.  Guess we’ve never noticed until now. It’s funny, just how you never notice a detail that’s always been there.’ Mr Bankcroft went back to his chores as Cecilia cleared another bin liner of old trinkets to the skip.

It was in the twilight hours of a Monday evening and Cecilia had trouble sleeping.  She looked at the calendar in the living room.  Running her finger down the dates.  It had been 6 months since they had moved in.  Using her phones light she guides herself into the dining room, and there was Ms Kelso. It could have been the lighting, the way her phone’s torch hovered the picture frame but the the river Ms Kelso was on was red, blood red, and the sky appeared to be black and purple, shoots of lightning were shooting out and Ms Kelso looked deranged, unhinged.  It felt her hands were reaching out of the photo frame around the neck of Cecilia.

Cecilia stepped away, leaning her hand backwards to find the light switch.  And Ms Kelso was gone.  In her place was an empty boat on a riverbed.  The sky and waters clear.

The next day over breakfast, as Mr Bankcroft brought over Cecilia buttered toast she confided in him. 
‘It was a nightmare Albert.  A total nightmare.  I don’t like it one bit.  The picture’s possessed.  We need to get rid of it. No one will even check, will they?’
‘It sounds like you’ve been sleepwalking again dear.’
‘Now you listen Albert, I know when I’ve sleep walked, and last night I did not sleep walk.’
‘Well how do you know?’
‘Because I bloody well know.’
Mr Bankcroft creased his brow.  He walked around the living room, one hand perched against the new wallpaper, the other soothing an oncoming headache pressing around his temple.
‘Let’s rest on it. One more night.  This is the first time this has happened?’ Cecilia nodded, she’s looking into the buttered toast incapable of taking a bite.
‘One more night, and then I’m getting rid of that bloody picture, understood?’
‘Yes, fine. I agree. We’ll take down the picture.’

Mr Bankcroft had long wanted a house. This house, any house, it never mattered.  He was tired of paying rent for another mans house.  Tired to never have land he could call his own, and now here was his chance.   He hoped, desperately his beloved had been sleep walking.  But he also knew the John Kelso, his stepfather had a sinister family history.  The hoarding of books and magazines contained unfamiliar alien markings hidden among the old calendars and road atlases. There were pictures, grey and crumpled, grainy and difficult to see of eldery woman.  Some looked like Ms Kelso, at the age she looked in the photo.  It was impossible he thought, as that would make her over 150 years old when she died. Something around that he pounded. But the more he thought about the possibilities the more he pushed them away. Deep down inside a bottle, in the deep ravine of his mind.  Never to be found again.  It was all fancy dress and odd hobbies and nothing more.

Mr Bankcroft was in bed with Cecilia radiating enough heat to keep the house warm all winter.  Snoring loudly into the night.  Cecilia sweated, ignoring her urge to cool down, walk about and return to bed, ignoring the pressing off her bladder desperately telling her she needed to pee.  She would have to cross the dining area to pee, she would have to cross Ms Kelso.  Cecilia pressed her phone as its false light dimly illuminated the room.  She had been wide awake like this for an hour. 

The bladder pressed once again.  Demanding to be listened to.  Until she finally caved in.  It would all be fine she thought. It was all in her mind anyway.  Nothing harmed her.  Nothing could. It was a picture afterall.

She left the lights off as she climbed down the stairs, through the living room and finally into the dining area, ignoring Ms Kelso, and finally she relieved herself.  Exiting the bathroom Ms Kelso, was in the frame looking into her eyes.  Under her breath Cecilia pointed to the picture, and as forceful as she could spoke to Ms Kelso. ‘Listen here, this is our house, our home. You can try scare me all you like but if you dare fuck with us.  I will fuck with you.’  Cecilia caught herself, her finger in a picture frame, mad as hell. Madder than she has been in years.  And suddenly she began to laugh.  What was she doing? She thought.  It was all in her head.  She turned to exit the dining area pulling on the handle.  There was something uncanny about the handle, it felt still, somehow rusted. The door felt like it was of another world, or another time. 

Cecilia was in hell, or as Ms Kelso called it, her house. The windows had vanished and instead there were walls of fire, and the floor had given way in place of a oar boat, at its helm was Ms Kelso rowing, rowing nowhere.  She did not speak.  But her actions spoke louder.  Cecilia was in Ms Kelso’s home, this was hers, and no one but the perfect woman but be right for her son. 
‘Your son died.  I’m with Albert. Your son’s stepson.  Please, let me out of here. Listen to me. Please.’
Her arrogance. Her lies.  Removing her belongings, belittling her history. Removing her books, her china, her wallpaper, her carpets.  How was she ever to keep her legacy.  No, this floozy was no good. 

Cecilia woke up the next morning, buttering his toast and sitting down for his morning coffee, opening the newspaper something caught his eye.  The picture frame of Ms Kelso it seemed different.  Maybe her teeth never showed at all, he thought?   And who was that woman in the photo with her?  Her back is to the frame, but she looks almost a spitting image of Cecilia. 
It’s funny, he thought, how you never notice a detail that’s always been there.