The Uninvited by WR Armstrong
THE UNINVITED
W. R. ARMSTRONG
Copyright 2013 W R Armstrong
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE UNINVITED
Tim Christopher first became aware of the old woman shortly after taking up residence at the “The Birches”. He was busy loading rubbish into a skip on his driveway when he saw her leaving the nature reserve across the road. She was thin and sour faced and walked with the aid of a cane. She came to stand on the pavement where she paused to look directly at the house.
“Nice day,” Tim called out to her. The woman ignored him. He tried again. Same result. “Love you too, you old misery,” he said beneath his breath.
“Who are you talking to?” asked a voice from behind. He turned to see his wife standing there.
“The old dear,” he said.
“What old dear?”
He looked back across the road. The woman was gone.
“You were talking to yourself again, weren’t you,” Helen Christopher teased. “You do realise it’s the first sign of madness.”
“I’ll mention it to my psychiatrist,” Tim countered.
“By the way, have you seen our wayward son lately?”
“Last time I saw Adam he was in the back garden,” Helen said. “Why do you ask?”
Tim pointed to the bicycle lying on the pavement.
“Blessed thing’s going to get stolen if he’s not more careful.”
Inside the house Helen poured Tim a glass of tap water. “Drink,” she said, “or you’ll get dehydrated.”
Tim did as he was told. “I tell you, Helen, the gardens surrounding this house are a jungle. They’ll be the death of me, I swear.”
Helen, putting dishes away in one of the cupboards, said, “You can’t die just yet; you’ve got wallpaper stripping next.”
“Thanks for the sympathy,” Tim replied as he wandered into the utility room to wash his hands.
“You wanted to buy the place,” Helen pointed out, following with a basket of laundry.
“We both did,” Tim reminded her.
They had offered on “The Birches” in March of that year, before finally completing and moving in at the beginning of August. The sale had been protracted due to survey problems, which had resulted in re-negotiation; a situation further complicated by the fact that the owner refused to have any direct involvement in the sale, preferring instead to employ the services of a relative. “The Birches” was ramshackle, but habitable, with immense potential, a fact not lost on the Christophers. The couple saw it as more than an investment however; they intended it to be their forever home. Perched on a large corner plot with original features intact, it overlooked a sprawling nature reserve. It was, the Christophers thought, the perfect place in which they and their seven year old son could grow and prosper.
“How’re you doing with the unpacking?” Tim asked Helen as he dried his hands.
“Getting there, slowly,” she replied.
“Slowly, slowly catchy monkey,” Tim said, playfully grabbing her from behind.
The sound of a creaking door distracted them. They turned to see Adam standing in the doorway.
“Hey, what’s up soldier?” Tim asked.
The boy, who was fair skinned and fair haired like his parents, and small for his age, looked vaguely troubled. Pointing back the way he’d come, he said, “There’s a lady in the garden.”
“A lady,” Tim repeated, “What does she want?”
“She asked me if she could come into the house.”
Tim exchanged a puzzled look with Helen. “What did you say?”
“I told her I’d ask you.”
“You did the right thing,” Tim said. “Where’s the lady now?”
“Not sure.”
“What did she look like?” asked Helen.
“Old” said Adam, “with a walking stick.”
Tim frowned.
“What’s the matter,” Helen asked him.
“I’ll tell you later,” he replied. And then, to Adam, “Show me where this lady was when you saw her.” They left the utility room and ventured outside onto the patio area, where Adam gestured to a spot in the garden where a weeping willow stood, beneath which was a set of wrought iron furniture.
“She was sitting at the table under the tree,” said Adam.
“Stay here,” Tim instructed and went to investigate. On his return he shrugged and said, “She’s nowhere to be seen. I guess she must’ve got bored and left.”
To Adam he said, “If she returns, let me or your mother know straight away.”
Adam promised that he would.
Later that day, Adam wandered into the garage where Tim was helping Helen unpack removal boxes. He was holding a figurine of a pretty Victorian lady.
“What do you have there?” Tim asked, going to him.
“The old woman gave it to me,” said Adam.
“When?”
“Just.”
“I thought I told you not to talk to her.”
Adam looked confused. “That’s not quite what you said, dad. You told me to tell her to talk to you if she wanted to come into the house. And that’s what I did. And then she gave me this ornament, and walked off.”
“If she tries to give you anything else,” Helen said, “don’t accept it. Okay?”
“But it’s rude not to accept a gift from someone,” Adam challenged.
“From someone you know, maybe,” Helen said, “But not from perfect strangers. That’s the golden rule, so stick to it. Is that clear, young man?”
“Yes,” said Adam, looking suitably chastised.
Helen’s demeanour softened. “Now, give me the ornament,” she said holding out a hand.
Adam did as he was told.
Helen ruffled his blonde locks and said, “Good boy, now scoot.”
“Do you think we’ve been too hard on him?” Helen asked Tim once he’d gone.
“We’ve acted in his best interests just like we always do,” Tim said.
That evening, with Adam asleep in his bedroom, Helen quizzed Tim on the subject of the old woman, “You’ve seen her too, haven’t you?” she said.
Tim nodded.
“When?”
Tim filled her in on the details, seeing no reason not to.
“Who is she, what does she want?” Helen asked.
“How should I know?”
“Whoever she is, I don’t want her approaching my son again.”
“You think I do?”
The following morning Tim was cutting the front lawn when he received a visit from his new neighbour.
“Michael Brown,” the man said introducing himself and extending a hand for Tim to shake. He was a big, friendly individual, with grey, close cropped hair and a neatly clipped moustache. Tim took him to be in his mid sixties, and liked him immediately.
“Tim Christopher; pleased to meet you,” Tim said shaking hands.
“Settling in okay?” Michael asked.
“There’s a lot to do, but we’re looking forward to the challenge,” Tim said.
They continued passing the time of day up until the moment Helen appeared at the front door calling for Tim to come quickly. Tim excused himself and hurried into the house. He found Helen in the living room. Visibly shaken, she explained that she’d been in the kitchen moments before, organising the cupboards and drawers, when she happened to turn to face the window overlooking the back garden to be confronted by the sight of a hunched figure sitting at the patio table.
“It was the old woman you and Adam have seen, she fits the descri
“Looks like we might have a problem,” Tim commented.
“An understatement,” Helen replied, “The question is; what on earth do we do about it?”
“We try to talk to the old dear,” Tim reasoned. “Find out what she wants.”
“Where’s Adam?” Helen suddenly asked. “Have you seen him recently?”
“Not since breakfast,” Tim said.
Helen rushed from the room, calling their son’s name.
She found him safe and sound in his bedroom playing on his computer.
“I suddenly had this awful thought that he’d been harmed in some way,” Helen later explained to Tim.
“It’s understandable,” he said, “but we’re talking about an old woman here, Helen. It’s doubtful she’d have the strength to do anything untoward to Adam, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Nevertheless,” Helen said, and left it at that.
Later that week, Helen came to Tim holding an old chipped vase in her hands.
“I thought we were through with buying junk from charity shops,” Tim remarked when he saw it.
“I didn’t buy it,” Helen replied. “I found it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Standing on the dining table.”
“How did it get there?”
“I was rather hoping you could tell me,” Helen said, studying the object with mild suspicion.
Tim tried to make light of it. “Perhaps the old woman snuck in and put it there,” he said with a theatrical shudder.
“Don’t say that,” Helen snapped back. “It’s not funny.”
Tim apologised. Helen walked off holding the vase at arm’s length, as if it was something slightly dangerous.
“Thought it might come in handy,” Michael Brown said when Tim answered the front door the next morning. He was holding a Dewalt drill in his big gnarled hand.
“That’s very good of you,” Tim replied.
“Think nothing of it,” Michael said, “I take it you still haven’t found yours amongst the packing boxes?”
“Not yet,” Tim said, “When do you need it back?”
“Keep it as long as you want,” Michael insisted. “I’ve got a spare one I can use.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
Michael jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder, in the direction of the nature reserve. “Just for your information, Tim, there exists around here a select little club affectionately called “Friends of the Reserve”. We locals are proud of the place and meet over there on the last Sunday morning of every month. It’s totally informal.”
Members do a tidy up if it’s required, take photo’s... make sketches; some even draw enough inspiration to write poetry. It’s a great way to get to know the neighbours Tim, so if you and your family find yourselves at a loose end, you’d be more than welcome to attend.”
“Thanks,” Tim said, meaning it. “We may take you up on your offer.”
At that point Helen appeared at Tim’s side.
Tim introduced her to their new neighbour. “Pleased to meet you,” Helen said.
Michael smiled. “Like-wise. Hope to see you both on Sunday,” he said before wandering off in the direction of his house.
“What’s happening on Sunday?” Helen asked.
Tim explained. “We should make the effort and go along,” he suggested.
The Sunday morning gathering consisted of a dozen or so residents from the immediate surrounding area, one of whom was Michael’s brother, Benjamin, who was the long serving parish vicar.
“I understand you’re the proud new owners of “The Birches,”’ Benjamin said to Tim and Helen following introductions. And then to Adam, “Do you like your new house, son?” Adam said he did, very much, and wandered off to chat to a lad of similar age.
The adults left him to it and took to exploring the reserve, making small talk as they went. As they entered a shaded copse, Helen suddenly broached the subject of the “The Birches” unwanted visitor.
“I don’t think this is the right time,” Tim interrupted, but she politely overrode him.
“We’ve been visited by an elderly lady,” she informed the two men. “She keeps popping up in the grounds surrounding the house. We’ve twice found her sitting in the back garden. Have you any idea who she might be?”
Michael exchanged a puzzled look with his brother, who asked for a description. Tim obliged. The brothers exchanged another look. Benjamin went to speak but Michael beat him to it. “Can’t think who that might be, I’m afraid.”
Later that day, back at the house, Adam came indoors from the garden with another figurine.
“How did you come by that?” Helen immediately wanted to know. “Did the old woman give it to you? I thought we told you never to accept gifts from strangers, especially her.”
“She didn’t give it to me,” Adam remonstrated. “I found it.”
“Where?” asked Tim, who joined them having overheard the conversation.
“By the back door,” Adam explained.
“Let me see it,” Helen said, extending a hand. Adam gave it to her and she briefly inspected it. It was much like the first one Adam had brought into the house, being a delicate porcelain figure, this time portraying a young lady in a long bustle skirt and sun hat. The underside of the figurine’s base was inscribed with words rendered illegible by age.
“What goes on, Tim?” Helen asked once Adam was out of the room. “Adam maintains the old woman gave him the first figurine and swears he found the second one outside. But what of the vase...how did that get into the house if we three didn’t bring it in? I’m worried that the old woman really did sneak in here with it.”
“Adam brought the vase into the house,” Tim admitted. “I didn’t tell you because I felt he’s been berated quite enough already.”
Helen grudgingly took his point. “But don’t you dare keep me in the dark again. Do you understand?”
Tim offered an apology.
“Apology accepted,” Helen said and pecked him on the check.
“Can we crack on with the unpacking now?”
“Is that all you ever think about, Tim Christopher?”
“What else is there?” he said, leaving the room bound for the garage.
Michael called round unexpectedly the following day while Helen was in town doing the weekly shop.
“To what do I owe this pleasure,” Tim asked upon answering the knock at the door.
“Mind if we talk,” Michael asked.
Tim invited him in.
Over coffee in the dining room Michael said, “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Helen the other day. She seemed a little bit stressed if you don’t mind me saying.”
“It’s her workload combined with the house project,” Tim explained, but that was only partly true. Helen was finding the unwanted sporadic appearances of the old woman distressing and made her fear for Adam’s safety. She’d turned up unannounced again yesterday. Helen, who had spotted her in the back garden from an upstairs window, had rushed outside with the intention of confronting her, only to find her gone by the time she got there.
“She’s freaking me out!” Helen had ranted at Tim upon his return home from work that afternoon.
It now appeared that Michael was about to impart information about her that Tim was unsure he wanted to hear.
“The description you gave the other day of your uninvited guest,” he began, “You may as well have been describing Mrs Hargreaves.”
Tim frowned. “You mean the previous owner of “The Birches”?
“The very same,” Michael acknowledged.
“But we understood she sold the place in order to take up residence in a private nursing home.”
“But why would she return here,” Tim questioned.
“Perhaps she’s home sick,” Michael ventured.
“It can’t possibly be Mrs Hargreaves,” Tim insisted. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I agree,” said Michael.
That afternoon Tim arrived back from the DIY store to find Helen quizzing Adam.
“Where did you get it?” she asked as Tim entered the room. “I demand that you tell me.”
Adam looked close to tears. “The old woman told me to bring it in,” he admitted.
“She frightens me. I didn’t want to upset her by refusing.”
He looked across at the table upon which stood yet another figurine.
“I’m fed up with this nonsense,” Helen said, looking at Tim. “What on earth is going on?” Without waiting for an answer she snatched the figurine off the table and left the room, headed for the kitchen.
“What are you going to do with it?” Tim called after her.
“Same thing I did with the others and the stupid vase,” she answered back, “I’m going to bin it!”
“You can’t do that,” Tim said, chasing after her. “It’s not your property!”
Helen turned on him. “I know damn well it’s not mine! I also know I didn’t ask for it or the other objects to be brought into my house. They have no place here so I’m getting rid. If the old hag doesn’t like it, tough! She should’ve thought about that before she got our son to bring the blessed things in. And that’s another thing. Who the hell does she think she is, coercing our son into such behaviour?” Helen was shaking with anger.
Tim went to her and pulled her close. “Hey, steady on,” he said soothingly, “She’s just an old misguided woman who wants to bring us moving in presents.”
“If that’s the case,” Helen said, breaking the embrace, “Why doesn’t she simply approach us with them herself, instead of skulking around.”
Tim had no answer. Moreover, he was concerned by the fact that the old woman might be Mrs Hargreaves.
Later, in the study, Tim rifled through the red box folder that contained the conveyance information they’d amassed in order to purchase “The Birches”. Rummaging through the paperwork he eventually came upon what he was looking for. It was the piece of paper containing the contact details of Mrs Hargreaves’ son, who’d acted for his mother throughout the sale process.
Tim picked up the phone and dialled the man’s number. Paul Hargreaves answered after three rings. Tim reintroduced himself and explained the reason he was phoning. There followed a long awkward silence before, finally, Paul Hargreaves said, “Is this some kind of sick joke Mr Christopher?”
Tim, taken aback by the response, replied, “No,