Sitting at Bentinck Road

It was perfect. We had been scouring the area for weeks, but nothing came up, let alone something in our price range. When 42 Bentinck Road appeared on the market, we rushed to make an appointment and had almost made an offer on the drive over. We resisted almost as far as the extremely dated kitchen. The whole house was dated. It hadn’t been renovated in decades, and while it had been lived in until very recently, it had a musty brick-a-brac shop aroma that would put most would-be homeowners off. But we were so desperate for our own little corner of East Hoston; a renovation project was a small price to pay. Our offer was quickly accepted, and within a month, we were preparing to move into our new home.

We didn’t have a huge amount of furniture to move from our studio flat, and we had hoped that some of the old furniture may have been left, but sadly, all that remained was one small wooden chair. It was completely useless to us, too small for an adult, too large for a child. But then beggars can’t be choosers. We moved it from its place in the center of the living room and tucked it into the corner of the dining room, and began totting up how many things we were going to need to pick up and which rooms needed prioritizing.

Our first trip to the furniture store found us with a few living room and bedroom items. We made those rooms more homely and stacked our remaining few boxes in the dining room. That evening, we used our newly bought crockery and sat on our newly constructed two-seater sofa, eating a meal we had planned to cook in the oven fitted into the ancient kitchen. Sadly, it almost inevitably failed, and it was a takeaway pizza that christened our living room. We settled down to watch a film. It was the first time we had really sat and relaxed since we had moved in, and in all honesty, it was the first time we had really noticed the neighbors. It shocked us how noisy they were. It also surprised us that they would allow a child so young to still be up and running around and singing. We realized that in the rush to move in, we hadn’t introduced ourselves to the neighbors. We resolved to do it the following day and headed to bed. On the way, I took a last look around the downstairs and made my way to bed.

The next day was a Sunday, and though we still had a lot of sorting and tidying to do, we planned to spend the morning exploring the village we had spent so long longing to live in. Curiously, as I carried my bowl of cereal from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room, I tripped over the little chair, which I could have sworn I’d left behind the boxes. I put it to the back of my mind before dressing and heading out for a leisurely stroll in the sun. We found a quiet little cafe to refuel and headed home. I think that was the last time we felt truly happy. When we arrived home, everything changed.

That Sunday afternoon, we returned home to find our house ransacked. We were convinced we had been burgled and called the police, but in the time it took for them to arrive, we had discovered that nothing had been taken and realized that the house was still entirely secured. It left us shaken. Our first assumption was that we had left the door unlatched, and the burglars had been disturbed before fleeing through the open door and knocking it closed after themselves. After the police left, we began the process of tidying the house up. Thankfully, there was little damage, and as we didn’t have much, it didn’t take as long as it might. In fact, it gave us the impetus to unpack a few of the boxes, hang up some of the clothes that had been scattered to the four winds, and rearrange a little of the furniture.

When we made it into the dining room, we found the room as chaotic as the rest of the house. By this stage, it was the early hours of the morning, and neither of us really felt motivated to make inroads into the mess. I remember one of us noticed that the burglars had moved the little chair into the center of the room, but other than joking that it was a shame they hadn’t taken it to save us coming up with something to do with it, I placed it back in the corner, shut the door, and headed to bed, fully intending to tidy the room the following morning.

We were woken by a knock on the door the next day; it was our next-door neighbors. Derek Foster was a cheerful retired gentleman, and his wife Helen, who was as yet not fully retired but was equally cheery, had seen the police the previous evening and were concerned about our well-being. It could have been suspected that they were there to snoop on the troubled new neighbors. I think this crossed both our minds, but it was far from the truth, and we realized this very quickly. They had no interest in coming in but wanted to check we were okay and insisted that we joined them next door for what was without a doubt the best breakfast I have ever had.

After a relaxing and unbelievably warm and welcoming morning in the company of our new neighbors, we made our excuses and returned to our toil with our still extremely disorganized home. It wasn’t until we had emptied a couple of boxes that I was hit by a thought that sent a chill down my spine. The child we heard the night before. It wasn’t in the Foster’s house. I kept this thought to myself, but I knew I wasn’t alone in having made this realization. It wasn’t long before it wouldn’t leave either of our minds. We spent most of the day ensuring the upstairs was livable and the bathroom was prepared for a potential redecoration. It was pushing towards dusk when we made it to the final task. The dining room.

Perhaps we should have guessed something was not right when the door wouldn’t open. It didn’t feel jammed; it felt more like it was being held at the other side, but it couldn’t have been. It took quite an effort to force it open, and when I did, the sight of the previous evening’s carnage was not really something I had particularly looked forward to seeing. However, a job was needed to be done, and I intended to get it done. I just had to get myself some space by moving the little chair back into the corner. Hang on. Hadn’t I put that chair back in the corner last night? I wasn’t sure, but I began to feel more uneasy; it didn’t take long for that to worsen. We began sorting the scattered belongings into piles and made good headway until we heard a creak on the stairs. We both heard it; it was unmistakable, two or three clear steps on the stairs. We looked at each other and without a word, stopped what we were doing. A fourth step. I darted to the bottom of the stairs; there was nobody there. I grabbed the handrail and sprinted up the stairs. Checking every room with great bounds, I found, not wholly to my surprise, that there was nobody there.

I slowly made my way down the stairs again. As I reached the halfway mark, I felt a small shoving feeling in my lower back. I stumbled slightly, but by grabbing the banister, I kept my balance and made my way downstairs. As I walked back into the dining room, I got a sensation of something going past my ear before I realized that there was a crash, and I saw a dent in the wall opposite me. A ceramic mug had flown past me, missing by a matter of millimeters. Neither of us had seen where it came from, but both had seen it hit the wall. We knew we had a problem.

As we decorated and prepared our new home, we tried very hard to put our concern to the back of our minds, but the occasional footsteps, singing, and of course, that damn chair that kept returning to the center of the room, reminded us that there was something dark and wrong with this house.

Over the next six weeks, the incidents came in small flurries. There would be nothing for a day or two, then missing items, thunderous steps up and down the stairs, or the disembodied singing. All of it put us more and more on edge. It finally came to a point that neither of us could cope; we were not sleeping. We were jumping at shadows, and neither of us had any great desire to be in the house on our own. But that Wednesday she did. I left her on her own. We were waiting for a delivery, but we needed to get to the tip before it closed. She said she would stay on her own; I suggested she went to the tip, and I would stay, but trying hard to stay composed and not become fearful of our own home, she stayed. This will haunt me forever. I’ve been told not to blame myself, but I do and I will. Not for leaving her, but for taking it. I decided enough was enough, and with all the other trash I was taking, I put the chair in the boot of the car. It wobbled uncertainly on top of the pile of boxes and miscellaneous household waste in my rearview mirror as I made my way to the local tip. I found it hard not to keep noticing it and spent more time checking it than the cars behind me. When I arrived the over enthusiastic attendant at the tip took the chair from me to recycle. Keen not to inflict its power on any unsuspecting person, I ignored the requests to take it from me and hurled it into the pile of broken wooden furniture. Instead of splintering into many pieces, it bounced three or four times before settling upright next to the bottom of the pile. Pleased that it was out of my hands. I hurriedly got rid of the rest of our rubbish, jumped back into the car and raced home.

I was too late.

When I arrived home, the lights were off. I opened the door, and there she was, lying still and cold at the bottom of the stairs.

I was too late.

The house was silent and still. I did everything I could while I waited for the ambulance. I followed in the car; I think I already knew, but I prayed as hard as I could, imploring any God there was to spare her to no avail. I don’t remember the hospital, all the conversations, all the sympathy, all the cups of tea. I don’t know how long I stayed there. It may have been hours or even days. But she was gone, and today I still can’t say her name. Eventually, I did have to go home to that house.

When I arrived, I opened the door. Everything was as it was when I had left, following the paramedics. I went to the kitchen first and poured myself a glass of very strong whiskey. I walked through into the living room and sat staring at the emptiness. As I sat, not thinking about anything, I noticed a sound. It was a child humming from the next room. I jumped up in a rage. I was going to find what had done this to her. I flung open the door to the dining room, and there, in the middle of the room, was the chair. I turned and walked away and never returned to 42 Bentinck Road.