You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in this neighbourhood. It’s only two steps away from being a slum; probably half the people who live here are illiterate.

  A squeal of tires disturbed Raj. He turned and saw, to his surprise, a bus had pulled up beside him. I didn’t even hear it coming.

  He tried to see a direction or a number on but bus’s face, but it didn’t have either. The doors opened with a quiet whoosh.

  “Hey,” Raj said, and the driver, a plump, middle-aged man with a pleasantly smiling face, leaned towards him. “Where’re you heading?”

  The man laughed. “All sorts of places, kid. Where d’you want to go?”

  Raj glanced at the dilapidated houses around him. He hadn’t expected anyone who managed this sort of route to be pleasant, let alone friendly. The driver looked like the sort of person who belonged in comfortable middle-upper class suburbs, managing a private school’s bus, perhaps.

  “Uh…” Raj glanced back at the sign’s map. He’d had the vague idea of going to Calgary, where he knew one of his brother’s friends lived, but he could be flexible. More than anything, he wanted to get out of the neighbourhood. “You passing near Calgary at all?”

  “Sure am,” the driver said, beckoning Raj aboard. “We’re looping through a few other suburbs first, though, so it’s going to be a long trip. That okay?”

  Raj hesitated, one foot in the bus. A long trip meant a lot of money, which he didn’t have. “How much?”

  The bus driver gave him an appraising look, his blue eyes scanning Raj’s stained hoodie and torn jeans. “Kid, I hope I don’t seem out of place saying this, but you look like you’re in some sort of trouble.”

  If an alcoholic with a raging temper and peculiar ideas about what fatherhood meant counted as trouble, Raj was in a whole lot of it. He felt his face heat as he gave a dismissive shrug.

  “Hey,” the driver said, and the warm smile grew over his face. “We all need a hand-up sometimes. The ticket’s on me.”

  Raj didn’t know what to say. He thought he mumbled some sort of thanks as he stepped onto the bus, then the doors drew closed behind him as Raj looked for a seat.

  The bus held an eclectic collection of passengers. Near the front was a young, pretty woman with dyed-blue hair and nose piercings. Three rows behind her sat a businessman with a limp paper folded over his hands. A little further back was a teenager a couple of years younger than Raj. Judging by his sickly pallor and the way he shot paranoid glances at his companions, Raj suspected he’d been dipping into some less-than-legal substances. A man who seemed to be homeless lounged against one of the windows, sleeping. Two middle-aged women sat at the other side of the bus, near the back, knitting. And a girl with smeared mascara stared out the window with studied silence.

  Raj took a seat behind the pretty girl near the front, and leaned back so he could rest his shoulder against the window. The girl shot him a bright smile as he passed. Raj smiled back against his better judgement.

  “All settled?” the driver called as he put the bus into gear. Raj felt a shock pass through him. When they’d been talking, the driver had held his hands in his lap, where Raj couldn’t see them. Now he’d placed them back on the steering wheel, and Raj was faced with the sight of ten long, dark-yellow nails.

  It was so bizarre and so out of character for the otherwise bright and tidy driver, that Raj couldn’t take his eyes away. The nails were at least three inches long, and seemed sharpened at the tip.

  “Bad day?” a husky voice asked. Raj startled, and turned towards the pretty girl.

  “Wha…?”

  “You looked pretty deep in thought there,” she said. Her voice was lower than Raj would have expected, and he found he quite liked it. A hesitant smile started to grow across his face, but he squashed it quickly.

  “Well, not the best, but, uh…”

  “Hey,” a voice barked from further back in the bus. “This isn’t the way to Hyde Street.”

  Raj turned to see the drugged-out kid had spoken. He looked agitated, squirming in his seat and stealing glances at the two knitting women who sat opposite.

  The bus driver glanced into his rear-view mirror, a sunny smile lighting up his face. “You’re right,” he said simply, then, addressing the rest of the bus, “Think we’ve got enough?”

  A chorus of voices answered. “Yeah.” “Good for me.” “Let’s do it.”

  The driver took a sharp turn and picked up speed, weaving the bus through some of the darker, lesser-used lanes. Raj felt unease tickle at his stomach. He glanced at the pretty woman, who had turned in her seat to face him. Her large, dark eyes crinkled into a smile. She didn’t seem concerned at all.

  Raj turned to look at the rest of the bus. The knitting women and the businessman all looked unaffected. Only the druggie, the teenage girl with the smeared mascara, and the homeless man who’d woken from his doze with a confused snort seemed in any way disturbed.

  “What’s going on?” Raj asked, turning back to the driver. He didn’t recognise the area they were in, but it looked industrial; warehouses lined the road, and he couldn’t see any other traffic.

  “Just wait a moment,” the driver said, “and you’ll understand.”

  Raj didn’t want to understand. He wanted to get off the damn bus with its damn creepy occupants and its damn strange driver with his damn long nails.

  “What’s wrong with your hands?” the druggie’s voice rang out again, and Raj turned. The kid was glaring at the knitting women, who both gave him equally polite smiles. Raj leaned forward in his seat to see them more clearly, but both women had their knitted scarves draped over their hands.

  Raj felt, all of a sudden, that this was a very bad sign. He found his eyes roving the rest of the bus’s occupants, checking their hands. The druggie’s, the homeless man’s, the crying teenager’s and his own were all visible. But the knitting ladies had theirs covered with their yarn, the business man had the newspaper draped over his, and the pretty woman in front of Raj had hers tucked into her pockets.

  “What…” he began, and then the bus pulled to a stop.

  There were no streetlights. No houses. No cars. Raj stood and prepared to bolt for the door, but the driver pressed a button and they locked with a quiet click.

  “Let’s eat,” the bus driver said, simply. And suddenly all of the hidden hands in the bus were exposed as the knitting and newspapers were put away.

  Raj felt a scream build in the back of his throat, but he already knew no one would hear him. The creatures with long, yellowed nails moved with deceptive speed. Both knitting women descended on the druggie, their jaws opening wider than a human’s possibly could as sharp, shark-like teeth extended forward. The motion was almost too fast for Raj to follow, but he caught the abortive, gurgled scream that cut off in a spray of blood. The suited man dropped his paper and leapt over the back of his seat to reach the half-asleep homeless man. The bus driver loped forward, past Raj, his eyes fixed on the terrified teenage girl. A fleck of blood hit Raj’s cheek and he turned, horrified, to find the pretty girl’s dark eyes an inch from his face.

  “Sorry.” She was smiling, but her breath was contaminated with something sick and rotten as she extended her yellow claws towards Raj. “Today’s about to get an awful lot worse.”

  5

  House for Sale

  Smile, Pam coached herself. She was watching a young couple walk through the kitchen, noting the damage to the cabinets and where tiles had broken off the walls to expose the dirty plaster beneath. Look attentive but not obsessive. And for the love of all that’s merciful, don’t let them see how much you hate this house.

  “Do you think the owner would be open to negotiation?” Paul, the husband, asked. He had huge eyebrows which had greyed before his hair. They reminded Pam of fuzzy caterpillars.

  “I’m sure they would.” Pam tried to inject just the right level of warmth in her voice. They’ve got to think you’re on their side. They’ve got to trust you.

  Paul was clearly trying not to let his interest show, but it still slipped through in the way he rocked on the balls of his feet and kept glancing at his wife. Melissa, the young bride, clearly had the final say in the purchase, but she seemed interested, too.

  This might be it, Pam thought, beckoning her companions into the living room to show off the dusty stone fireplace and scratched wooden floors. After eight years on the market, I might actually sell the Hunt Street property.

  The house was notorious in real estate circles. No one had been able to sell it, or get anything more than vague curiosity, since it had been listed for sale. During that time the house had deteriorated and decayed. Stains crept down the plaster walls and water damage peeled up the bases of the cupboards. That wasn’t the main reason the house remained empty, though.

  “It would make a great project for anyone interested in home improvements,” Pam said, sneaking a glance at Paul. He seemed the sort of person who fancied himself a handyman, and she wasn’t wrong. His eyes lit up at the prospect.

  “It’s going to be a lot of work,” Melissa said.

  C’mon, Melissa, don’t nuke this on me. I could really do with the commission.

  “I’ve been looking for a hobby to take up on the weekends,” Paul supplied, and Pam beamed at him.

  Melissa didn’t answer. Her attention had been diverted to the door at the back of the living room. “What’s through there?”

  “The basement,” Pam said, stepping forward. “Would you like to see inside?”

  Please say no. Please say no. Please say no…

  “Sure,” Melissa said, and it took a lot of effort for Pam to keep the smile on her face. “Absolutely.”

  She’d never been into the basement. She’d never had any desire to go into the basement. But, if the newlyweds wanted to see it, who was she to say no?

  “It hasn’t been opened in a while,” Pam said, searching through her keyring. The keys were all old, bronze and partially rusted, though they had plastic tags to list which rooms they unlocked. “It might be a bit mildewy down there.”

  Melissa’s hand fluttered to her belly, which had the barest hint of a bump.

  Aaah, so it’s going to be a family home, then. I’m not sure it’s a place I’d want my kids growing up in, but, if they want to take it off the market, I won’t complain.

  Pam had gone through her keyring without finding the tag reading “basement,” so started sorting through it again, more carefully. “Sorry—I can’t seem to find it—”

  “That’s fine,” Melissa said, turning away from the door to Pam’s great relief. “Can we see upstairs, instead?”

  “Absolutely.” Smile, smile, smile.

  They knew the house’s history, Pam reminded herself as she climbed the stairs. The law said her real estate company couldn’t sell the house without disclosing any facts that could dissuade a buyer. And boy, the Hunt Street property has enough facts to write an encyclopaedia.

  The steps creaked under Pam’s sneakers, and tiny sprinkles of dust fell from the ceiling. She tried not to touch the railing or the wall. The house had always felt dirty to her. She knew the crime scene cleaning team had been thorough, but even so, the building felt tainted—stained—in a way that no amount of bleach could cure.

  Don’t let them see it affecting you. Let them think it’s a nice fixer-upper with a quirky history. If you can make this sale, you’ll never have to think about the house again.

  In the top floor, Pam led the couple through the bedrooms as quickly as she could without looking like she was rushing them. “Here’s the master bedroom.” That’s where Mr and Mrs Bellet were murdered in their sleep by an unknown assailant. He used an axe, did you know? Apparently the blood sprayed all up that wall there and dripped off the roof. The crime scene cleaners had to strip the room entirely, and dig up most of the floorboards to purge it.

  “Through here is the children’s bedroom.” Pam gave Melissa an extra bright smile and a knowing wink. Little Frankie Bellet’s blood ran through the mattress and stained the floor. Please don’t Google search for the pictures. I did, and I’d give anything to forget them.

  “And the spare room.” It was a pretty, airy area. The killer’s message, scrawled in blood across the opposite wall, had been purged and painted over. Sometimes, when Pam glanced at the wall out of the corner of her eye, she imagined she could still see the words there. ‘This house is mine.’

  Four years of hunting, four years of failed or inconclusive DNA testing, and four years of the police chasing increasingly flimsy tipoffs had all been in vain. The killer had never been found. That was what chilled Pam the most; the crimes had been terrible, yes, but the potential that they could be echoed in another home, with another family… still, it didn’t seem to bother the newlyweds. They were more interested in the dirt-cheap price and how large and well-situated the building was. The atmosphere, which made Pam’s skin crawl every time she crossed the threshold, didn’t seem to touch them.

  Pam pretended to gaze out of the window at the aged elm tree in the back yard while the couple talked in hushed tones behind her. Paul loved the house. His eyes were bright and he was gesticulating erratically, apparently talking about the modifications they could make to turn it into their dream home.

  What was more, he seemed to be winning Melissa over. The mother-to-be gave a small nod, and Pam sensed it was her cue to step forward.

  “We’d like to make an offer to your owner,” Melissa said, and Pam tried to keep her smile from becoming too wild. Did I seriously do it? After eight years, am I finally getting the Hunt Street house off my list?

  “Absolutely,” Pam said, ushering them out of the room and towards the stairs. She was desperate to get outside and away of the toxic aura saturating the building. “How about we go over the details in my office? I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea while we work out your offer.”

  As they headed towards their cars—Paul and Melissa into a van that had clearly been bought with the intention of expanding their family, and Pam into her mini that let her park in even the most choked city streets—Pam stole a final look at the Hunt Street property. Its gloomy façade stared back. No, it’s more than gloomy, Pam though. It’s menacing. Even the windows, from the high attic arches to the little square that belongs to the basement, look grim.

  The basement window—!

  Pam did a double-take, but the window was empty. She felt her mouth open a fraction as her heart rate shot up and sweat built across her palms. I didn’t imagine that, did I…?

  “Ready?” Paul asked, and Pam knew for certain her smile was shaky this time.

  You’re so close, Pam. Don’t lose the sale.

  “Of course,” she said, sliding into the front seat of her car, and trying to erase the image of the sallow, furious face watching them through the basement window.

  6

  Abandoned

  From a distance, the collapsed tent looked almost identical to the dark rocks dotting the snow-blanketed slope. It wasn’t until he was nearly on top of it that Angus noticed the flapping canvas.

  Angus paused, his walking stick raised in preparation for his next step, as he stared at the half-buried structure. Mount Onglavia wasn’t a popular mountain-climbing destination, so he hadn’t expected to see anyone else on his weekend trip.

  The tent had collapsed and become half-buried by the snow, which didn’t bode well for its occupant. Angus wasn’t high enough for altitude sickness to be a serious concern, but there were still a multitude of other hazards that could maim or kill an unprepared climber. Angus quickened his pace, struggling through the knee-deep snow, to reach the tent. “Hello?” he bellowed as he neared it, even though he didn’t expect any answer. “Anyone hurt?”

  Silence. Angus circled around the tent before drawing closer and tugging on the canvas. To his shock, the fabric pulled away in a thin strip. Something had sliced through the tent’s walls, and only the poles and the weight of the snow held the remainder of the structure together.

  What’s strong enough to cut through this? Angus examined the frayed edges of the thick cloth. A knife could do it. Or maybe a bear… except there aren’t supposed to be bears around here.

  Angus pulled on the fabric, throwing off the heavy layer of snow to see underneath. Any thought that the tent might have been abandoned due to a defect left him. Inside was fully-stocked with food, spare clothes and hiking equipment.

  Angus turned back to survey the harsh white landscape. The pine trees, spindly and dark green, were the only life he could see. It would take an average climber more than a day to reach the mountain’s base from Angus’s current location. Whoever owned the tent surely wouldn’t have gone down without his supplies, would he?

  A knapsack sat in the corner, half-buried in the snow but still full of clothes and equipment. Angus swiped his gloved hand through the white powder coating the tent’s floor and found the sleeping bag underneath.

  Angus didn’t like to think about what had happened to the tent’s owner. Mountaineering was a dangerous hobby, especially when done solo. Angus cast his eyes across the hills, wondering if the mystery climber’s body was out there somewhere. The tent wasn’t too far buried, which meant it must have been set up only a few days before.

  Still, a few days is a long time for someone to survive around here.

  The strangest part, though, were the slashed tent walls. Angus lifted parts of the canvas to examine the long, jagged gashes. He couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for the damage.

  A gust of wind blew a thin flurry of slow across the landscape and batted it against Angus’s hooded face. With the wind came a low, drawn-out moan.

  Angus turned towards the noise. He’d never heard anything like it before, but it somehow seemed to fit the bleak environment. He guessed it might have came from air being forced through a hole in a rock, or possibly even a cave. Either that or some sort of wolf, though it sounded like no animal he’d ever heard before. It set his teeth on edge.

 

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