Chapter Text
I exist in two places
here and where you are
- from Corpse Song, by Margaret Atwood
The estate agent closed the front door behind her and turned to them with a slightly too-wide smile. ‘So. What are your thoughts? Initial impressions?’
Mike said nothing but looked at Alison, eyebrows raised in expectation.
‘Well, I mean, it’s really… nice, isn’t it? Lots of room, all the, y’know… the features,’ Alison began, darting a look back to Mike. ‘I’m just not so sure about the state of the plasterwork. Bit of a cause for concern, I think.’
The estate agent’s smile faltered. ‘Yes, of course, I understand completely. It’s always good to be cautious, but I can assure you this property was fully renovated only recently. There shouldn’t be any problems, and even if there were, I’m confident they would be easy fixes.’
Alison sucked in a breath through her teeth. ‘How recently are we talking? Because I’m pretty sure I saw a few cracks here and there. Maybe it’s the proximity to the river. All that moisture. The damp.’
‘It was all completed within the last two years, but I suppose that’s a possibility,’ the estate agent said slowly, not looking wholly convinced. Alison had already forgotten her name. It wasn’t her fault that all estate agents looked the same. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you seem quite preoccupied with plasterwork in general. You’ve mentioned it in several other properties I’ve shown you.’
‘It’s just caused us a lot of trouble in our current house,’ Alison said with what she hoped was breezy nonchalance. ‘I’d rather not go through all that again.’
‘So, yeah. We’ll think about it and let you know,’ Mike added quickly. The estate agent did her best to hide her disappointment.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Mia was born, but Alison could swear they’d been looking at houses for years instead of a few weeks. All the properties blurred together after a while, one mass of identical floor plans and ugly recessed lighting and grey walls (why was everything painted grey?). They’d viewed plenty of unique and beautiful houses, too, but one quick look had been enough to reject every single one of them outright.
‘What was it this time?’ Mike asked once they were back in the privacy of their car. ‘How many?’
‘Two of them. As far as I could see, anyway; there might have been more,’ Alison said, twisting around to check on Mia in her car seat. ‘A monk and what I think may have been a Viking.’
‘Bit tense, then?’
‘You’d think, but despite their presumably fractious history, they seemed to have… reconciled their differences, let’s say.’
‘Huh. Alright then. Good for them.’
‘Yup, but not for us.’ Alison scrolled through her phone searching for the next house they were set to look at. ‘Shame. I really liked that one.’ It’d had stained glass and an inglenook fireplace and so much storage, but a house that old was always going to be pushing her luck.
‘Me too,’ Mike said, starting the car and putting it into gear. ‘Though, did you see how cagey she got when we asked about the risk of flooding? I bet you that’s why they’re selling it. And there’s no way it has a damp course. It’ll be crawling with mould before the year’s over. I reckon we’re well shot of it.’
‘Just as we’re well shot of every other house we’ve looked at,’ Alison said flatly as she typed the address into Google Maps.
Despite their continued lack of success in house-hunting, Alison still wasn’t used to having enough money to be able to explore all their options and actively decide on somewhere to live. It seemed like an almost frivolous luxury. Like they were tempting fate. Part of her still expected something to go wrong and they’d be forced to go back to the good old days of having to accept the least awful option that lay at the intersection of their meagre budget and waning standards.
The golf company had all but bitten their hands off when they’d agreed to sell the house after all and made them an eye-wateringly generous offer. The sum was almost certainly more than Button House was worth, at least in its current state, but their lawyer had gently suggested that it was extra insurance against them backing out again, and who were they to argue? Mike had stared at the figure for a full minute, eyes raking over all the zeros, before turning to Alison and saying, ‘I hope you’re sure about this because I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can turn this down.’
And she was sure. Of course she was.
‘So, where next?’ Mike asked with a sigh.
‘Myrtle Cottage,’ Alison replied, scrolling through the photos again. ‘But don’t let the name fool you. It’s clearly just a pretty, full-sized house that happens to be out in the countryside.’ She briefly wondered how skewed the previous owner’s idea of a normal house was, but she was hardly one to talk.
‘Which one’s that?’
‘The Victorian redbrick one. Rustic farmhouse kinda vibe. Nice stairs. Weird green bathroom.’
‘I’m sure I’ll remember when I see it. Not that it matters; this one’s probably a dud, too.’
‘You never know. They can’t all be haunted, can they?’
Half an hour later, she and Mike stood in the garden of the not-cottage, huddled together as much for warmth as for secrecy. The estate agent had stepped away to answer some emails, but Alison suspected she was just being tactful.
‘So,’ Mike began carefully. ‘What do you think?’
Alison looked back towards the house, just to double-check she hadn’t dreamt it. The photos on the website hadn’t done it justice. It was beautiful; well lived in and well-loved, worn smooth and comfortable from years of housing ordinary lives, all the layers of happiness and contentment seeped into its bricks. Built-in bookshelves. Original period details. Plenty of natural light. More rooms than they knew what to do with, but that was hardly a new problem. There were actual roses around the front door, or there would be when summer arrived. The garden was large and out of sight of the road; a wide lawn surrounded by thriving flower beds and a little blue summer house with a pointed roof perched in one corner. Beyond it lay a sweeping view of rolling fields, winding hedgerows, and a small patch of woodland nestled at the bottom of the valley.
It all looked like something out of a storybook about a family of mice who wore waistcoats and frilly aprons and were always baking pies and going on picnics. If Alison were to draw a picture of her ideal house, it wouldn’t look much different.
‘It’s perfect,’ she said with a little shrug.
Mike nodded, lips pursed in thought. ‘Cool. Not just me, then.’
It could do with a bit of work, but what house didn’t? No more than a lick of paint in some of the rooms and updating the carpets and removing the fussy curtain pelmets over every window (why did old people love those so much?). The bathroom was still as weird as expected, but it was clean and everything worked, so it was far from a pressing concern. And they could do whatever they wanted to the place if the compulsion took them because—sweet blessed relief—it wasn’t a listed building.
‘Ideal for a growing family,’ the estate agent had chirruped at them in the sunny front room. ‘And so much character. Good bones.’ For all her glib sales tactics, she was right. It all had proper home potential.
‘We can stand here picking over the details if you want, but it ticks every box, doesn’t it? Good-sized kitchen, big garden, close to all the stuff that matters…’ Mike said, counting each item off on his fingers.
‘No debilitating structural issues…’
‘Not a “promising fixer-upper”, you mean.’ They’d heard that one too many times already and just the suggestion of it was enough to cause Alison to break out in a cold sweat.
Everything about this house seemed so uncomplicated. It had double glazing, a boiler that didn’t date from the Industrial Revolution, and a roof that wasn’t determined to keep leaking no matter how many times they got it fixed. A village big enough to have shops and its own train station was just up the road, the local MP was surprisingly non-awful, there were several good schools nearby, and it was “available with no onward chain” as the listing had so breathlessly proclaimed. And, Alison remembered with a prickly jolt of what should have been relief, it was a comfortable twenty-minute drive back to Button House.
It might have been that the sun had come out after months of winter gloom, but she could already see the rest of her life unfurling before her like a blooming flower.
Mia fussed in her pouch and Mike resumed the standard jiggle dance to settle her back down. ‘Just so we’re clear,’ he asked tentatively. ‘No ghosts?’
‘No ghosts,’ Alison replied. She struggled to believe it herself, but she’d scoured every inch of the place, from the cellar to the attic and in every last cupboard, and it had come up clean. ‘Not one.’
Before that moment, the Venn diagram of houses they might want to live in and houses with ghosts had been a circle. Or rather, it didn’t exist at all because the presence of any ghosts was an instant deal-breaker.
They were everywhere. So far, the ghost highlights included a dashing young man with a pencil moustache, whose effortless panache was marred by a slit throat and a blood-stained shirt; a grim-faced teenage girl with a broad lace collar and a bouquet of wilted wildflowers who lurked in the shadows of the hallway muttering sharp-edged words to herself; a burly man sporting a leather apron and a healthy black eye who carried half his own arm (at least Alison hoped it was his); and the old woman with greying hair bound in braids who’d screamed at them incessantly in a language Alison didn’t understand. Worst of all, however, had been the boy who’d stared up at Alison with large mournful eyes set in a painfully thin face and asked, “Are you going to be my new mummy?” in a tiny, tremulous voice. He can’t have been much older than four. Alison had cried for hours thinking about what must have happened to him, whoever he may have been, and how she had no choice but to leave him on his own again.
The age of the house was no indication of the likelihood of ghosts, either. They’d given in and looked around a flimsy new build that had all the charm of an empty cereal box, only to find that, while the house itself was free of any lingering spirits, the land it was built on was not. So Alison had to spend ten long minutes trying to inspect the house while the ghosts of three superior lordly types with big hats and pointy little beards bickered amongst themselves at both full volume and great length. They were the result of a quick string of hunting accidents, as far as Alison could deduce without looking too closely. Well, some of it might not have been an accident; the way they were carrying on, she couldn’t blame them for trying to bump each other off.
Encountering so many new ghosts in quick succession should have been unbearable, but Alison was ready for them. She had a Brand New Grand Plan for interacting with them all; the plan being that she simply didn’t. As long as they didn’t suspect she could see them, then they left her alone. And so far, it had worked a treat. Mostly, anyway.
Alison liked to think all her years at Button House had somewhat numbed her to the full spectrum of paranormal antics, all the shock and fear long drummed out of her. It helped that none of these new ghosts expected to be seen, but it was always tough to maintain her composure if any of them crept up behind her. Once, the ghost of a woman with enormous 70s hair and a still-lit cigarette had made a snide remark about the estate agent’s insistence on calling the perfectly ordinary conservatory a “solarium” and Alison was sure she’d ruptured something trying not to laugh.
She and Mike had also developed a code to navigate the ghost issue without appearing completely insane or attracting any unwanted attention; if Alison made a comment about the “plasterwork”, then there was a ghost in the house. It had been effective so far, but there was only so much a person could say about plaster before things got incredibly repetitive. The word was starting to lose all meaning.
Quietly, Alison wasn’t against living with another ghost, give or take a few aspects of their personality. Even one moderately needy ghost wouldn’t be unmanageable, but she couldn’t bring herself to allow it. The mere idea stung like a betrayal. They’d never forgive her.
She would have loved to tell the Button House ghosts about her house-hunting woes; all the weird little details of the houses they’d seen and the other ghosts she’d found along the way. But they never asked and she was far too aware of where this whole endeavour both started and ended to ever broach the subject.
And now, at long last, they’d found a house that met all their needs and was remarkably unhaunted for its age. “They’s all been sucked off”, came Mary’s voice unbidden from inside Alison’s head.
The beginning of the end swam into view like a low shadow slung along the horizon. After all the weeks of trawling through listings and traipsing out to a seemingly endless parade of viewings that went nowhere, Alison had begun to think nothing worthwhile would ever turn up; that the universe was against them as always and they’d be stuck at Button House forever.
But would that be so terrible?
‘Look at all this space. We could start a vegetable garden,’ Alison said, eager to fill the silence.
Mike looked at her askance. ‘Since when have you been into gardening? I’ve known you long enough not to trust you with plants.’
You kill one cactus… ‘It can’t be that hard. People have been managing to grow vegetables for centuries.’
‘Yeah, ‘spose. At the very least, it won’t take an age to mow the lawn.’ A definite bonus. Alison had lost count of the times she’d had to fob Fanny off with some ramshackle excuse about bees or biodiversity or that “Save the Butterfly July” was totally a real thing when she couldn’t be bothered to spend all day mowing acres of grass.
‘And we could get chickens!’ Alison said, turning to Mike and placing a hand on his arm, visions of fat, fluffy hens dancing through her thoughts, clucking softly as they went. ‘Imagine, Mike! Fresh eggs every morning!’
‘You know those things aren’t as cute as they look, right? They’re basically miniature dinosaurs. Vicious. Do you even know the first thing about keeping chickens?’
‘No, but we could learn. And, look, I think that’s an apple tree. We could pick our own apples in the autumn.’
‘We already have several apple trees, and every year you come over all cottagecore and pick about five apples and make one crumble before you forget about the whole thing and let all the others rot.’
‘Well… maybe my enthusiasm will stick if we’re living in an actual cottage.’
‘This place is no more a cottage than I am.’
‘Ok fine, but maybe we’ll finally have the time and energy to enjoy these things once we move here,’ she suggested. It wasn’t a question, but the lift in her voice made it sound like one.
Mike cut her a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. ‘I can see what you’re trying to do.’
‘What? I’m not doing anything. I’m just pointing out some of the positives of us living here. I’m excited. Aren’t you excited?’
‘You’re trying to convince yourself. If you say all these hopeful things then maybe you’ll decide you love this house and everything will be fine and dandy.’
Sometimes it was obnoxious how well he knew her.
‘No, actually,’ she scoffed. ‘It’s just that… buying a house is a big deal, even if we can afford it. We shouldn’t just jump on the first reasonably nice ghost-free house we find. I want to be sure this place is right for us. That it suits us.’
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Until that point, moving out had always been nebulous and abstract. All legal talk and contracts. A problem for the future. She’d thought she was ready for this, but now it was right there, staring her down and demanding she made a decision, the whole process suddenly terrified her.
Most of the time, Alison felt like a child playing with an impossible amount of money, liable to make a reckless choice based on a fleeting impulse rather than any practical foundations. She frequently had to remind herself that she wasn’t twenty-two anymore, crashing through the world, living for the moment with no responsibilities beyond her immediate needs. Except that time was long gone. Who had thought she was clever or capable enough to do this? Any of it? Even now she felt like a fraud, that the estate agents would take one look at her and know that someone of her ilk could never be able to afford such an expensive house. That it was all a lark. A child wearing their parent’s shoes, pretending to be an adult.
After so long searching, Myrtle Cottage seemed to be nothing short of a miracle, the shining golden solution to all her problems. And part of her hated that it might all be over and sorted so easily. Because as lovely as the house was, it wasn’t perfect. How could it be? It wasn’t Button House.
‘Ali,’ Mike said softly, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘We don’t have to move, you know. It’s not too late.’
She gave Mike a reassuring smile in return but didn’t quite meet his eyes. ‘Yes, we do. We agreed,’ she said, working to keep her voice even.
They had agreed, but the choice was between wearing herself down to a stub or breaking her heart, and she hadn’t the strength to face either outcome. This was the right thing for all of them, and she did want it, but the vast, painful finality of it hadn’t been apparent until she was standing right at the edge of it.
She needed to remember that she wasn’t doing any of this for her own benefit; it was all for Mia. She deserved a mother who had the energy and attention span and emotional bandwidth to love and care for her as much as humanly possible. Besides, Button House was no place for small children. All those sharp corners and sprawling staircases. A thousand accidents waiting to happen. The very thought made her feel sick.
This new house was everything she wanted, but it also meant nothing to her. It promised warmth and comfort and perfection on the face of it, but right now, it was little more than an empty shell. When most people moved house, they could bundle up their possessions and memories and re-home them somewhere new, somewhere better. Most people didn’t have to leave so much behind.
Alison loved Button House and everyone within it and the life she and Mike had carved out for themselves there, even if it had wrung them dry in the process. She’d loved it more than she’d realised, despite all the unending repairs and the constant disasters and all the poor souls trapped there who clung to her with barely concealed desperation because she was the only connection to the wider world they had. Had ever had. But sometimes love wasn’t enough. If she was honest with herself, it was always the idea of Button House she loved, rather than the reality. She loved it, but it didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t love her back. And perhaps that was why the prospect of moving out ached like a wound that wouldn’t heal.
That said, if it came down to it, she would choose Mike over the ghosts every single time. She would burn the place to the ground for Mia’s sake if the need arose, no question. She wouldn’t even hesitate. And that was what she was doing now. Choosing her family, the living, breathing loves of her life. It was a simple enough solution, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
She could love Myrtle Cottage in time. She was sure of it. But she had to let go of Button House first. Let go or be dragged.
Overhead, the brief shapes of birds flitted through the bare branches of the trees, their bright songs mingling in the wintery air. A thick lump rose in her throat, and an unnameable emotion sat dark and heavy in her chest. Alison tried to take in a deep breath, but it came out as a tight, shuddering gasp.
Mike wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in, pressing a kiss to her temple. ‘Hey now. It’ll be alright. Everything’s going to be fine.’
Alison only nodded in return, wordlessly wrapping her husband and her daughter in a firm hug. Because it would be fine. The alternative was unthinkable.
‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Mike said into her hair. ‘ It’s not like we need to decide this instant. We can go home and think it over. Take a few days to let it sink in. See if anything else crops up.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Probably the sensible thing to do. Though, aside from the horrible bathroom tiles, I can’t think of a single good reason why we shouldn’t live here. So, yeah. Looks like this is the one,’ she said through a sigh.
Mike frowned at her. ‘You sure? You don’t sound so keen about it.’
‘Yeah, no, I am. Really. It’s such a lovely house,’ she said, deliberately aiming for a more optimistic tone. She was aware she was talking too fast. ‘Like, objectively gorgeous. And everything we wanted. We’d be stupid not to go for it. And we might not even get it. What are the chances some try-hard bastard will come along and gazump us and we’ll have to start all over again?’
As she said it, she was caught by a pinching twist of jealousy at the idea of anyone else owning this house. That some nameless, faceless family would steal her shiny new life away from her. That she and Mike and Mia would have to make do somewhere else.
‘Knowing our luck,’ Mike said with well-practised resignation, ‘pretty high.’
They put in an offer two days later, promising themselves they weren’t going to hold their breaths over it.
Then the estate agent called back the next day to tell them their offer had been accepted.
Then the survey came back with a few minor quibbles but no issues that would require another small inheritance to fix.
And their lawyer assured them everything was in order.
And the people at the golf company showed no sign of changing their minds.
And before Alison knew it, all the pieces fell into place, one by one, and the move was as good as confirmed. The way was clear. They were finally leaving Button House.