“Call me if you need anything.”
She ran back outside and jumped in the cab next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance and then it vanished from sight.
She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon’s study.
His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and enquiring about the state of Gordon’s last book. Her mother had told him that they’d find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they’d send it on. Mr Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash on to the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. “Dead writers sell,” he had said, like he approved of Gordon’s clever marketing ploy.
Stephanie opened the desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering:
And The Darkness Rained Upon Them.
The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon’s books. She’d read most of them, and the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths. She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero, and over the course of the book systematically subject this hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she’d read.
She lifted the title page and carefully laid it face down on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn’t mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside.
Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She pressed the answer button and held it to her ear.
“Hi, sweetie,” came her mother’s voice, “everything OK?”
“Yes,” Stephanie answered. “Just reading.”
“You’re not reading one of Gordon’s books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It’ll give you nightmares.”
“No, Mum, I’m… I’m reading the dictionary.”
Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was sceptical. “The dictionary?” her mother said. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Did you know that popple is a word?”
“You are stranger than your father, you know that?”
“I suspected as much… So is the car fixed yet?”
“No, and that’s why I’m calling. They can’t get it going and the road up to you is flooded. I’m going to get a taxi up as far as it’ll go and then I’ll see if I can find some way around on foot. It’s going to be another two hours at least.”
Stephanie sensed an opportunity. Ever since she was a child she had much preferred her own company to the company of others, and it occurred to her that she had never spent a whole night without her parents nearby. A small taste of freedom and it almost tingled on her tongue.
“Mum, it’s fine, you don’t have to. I’m OK here.”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you in a strange house by yourself.”
“It’s not a strange house; it’s Gordon’s and it’s fine. There’s no point in you trying to get here tonight – it’s lashing rain.”
“Sweetie, it won’t take me long.”
“It’ll take you ages. Where’s it flooded?”
Her mother paused. “At the bridge.”
“The bridge? And you want to walk from the bridge to here?”
“If I speed-walk—”
“Mum, don’t be silly. Get Dad to pick you up.”
“Sweetheart, are you sure?”
“I like it here, really. OK?”
“Well, OK,” her mother said reluctantly. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, all right? And I saw some food in the cupboards, so if you’re hungry you can make yourself something.”
“OK. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Call us if you need anything or if you just want some company.”
“I will. Night Mum.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Stephanie hung up and grinned. She slipped the phone back into her jacket and put her feet up on the desk, relaxing back into the chair, and went back to reading.
When she looked up again she was surprised to find that it was almost midnight and the rain had stopped. If she were home right now, she’d be in bed. She blinked, her eyes sore, stood up from the desk and went downstairs to the kitchen. For all his wealth and success and extravagant tastes, she was thankful that when it came to food, Gordon was a pretty standard guy. The bread was stale and the fruit was a bit too ripe, but there were biscuits and there was cereal, and the milk in the fridge was still good for one more day. Stephanie made herself a snack and wandered to the living room, where she flicked on the TV. She sat on the couch and was just getting comfy when the house phone rang.
She looked at it, resting there on the table at her elbow. Who would be calling? Anyone who knew Gordon had died wouldn’t be calling because they’d know he had died, and she didn’t really want to be the one to tell anyone who didn’t know. It could be her parents, but then why didn’t they just call her mobile?
Figuring that as the new owner of the house, it was her responsibility to answer her own phone, Stephanie picked it up and held it to her ear. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” Stephanie repeated.
“Who is this?” came a man’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said, “who do you want to speak to?”
“Who is this?” responded the voice, more irritably this time.
“If you’re looking for Gordon Edgley,” Stephanie said, “I’m afraid that he’s—”
“I know Edgley’s dead,” snapped the man. “Who are you? Your name?”
Stephanie hesitated. “Why do you
