'The House of Children Lost' by Alyssa R George
 

Mark Leiman glared into the rear-vision mirror as his red Celica tore down the straight country road. "Will you two stop screaming at each other?"

Richard and Susan - his five-year-old products of a recently failed marriage - both began to wail at once. "Daddy, he ate all the red jellybeans!"

"She ate my yellow ones!"

"Listen!" Mark grated, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, "didn't we work this out before? Rickie gets yellow and orange, Susie gets red and white. That's nice and fair, isn't it?"

"But Daddy, there aren't any white ones!" whined little blonde Susie.

Mark sighed and gave up, trying to tune out as the twins began wrangling again. Driving through this quiet countryside didn't require much concentration, luckily - otherwise he'd have rammed into a tree long ago.

The thirty-year-old executive had recently bought a property in his native England after Miranda, his Australian wife of three years, had left him. It looked a nice place if the real estate pictures were anything to go by, old and very spacious - not to mention expensive. Still, he'd deemed the price worth it after seeing the pictures: huge grounds, lovely old two-storey manse, the perfect escape from the dour suburbs. There was plenty of room for Rickie and Susie to play, and the house was directly in front of a small woodland area that apparently belonged to him as well. Not bad for a quarter of a million pounds.

Mark rubbed at his tired eyes with one hand and slowly turned one of the few corners into a gravel driveway. The pastoral beauty of the countryside flashed by, but he barely noticed through his jetlag and growing irritation; going up the driveway took about fifteen minutes. He drove over the last hill quickly and could not restrain a low whistle as the beautiful house rose over the horizon. Rickie and Susie both cheered from the back seat as Mark pulled into a small ivy-covered carport and opened the car door eagerly, stretching his legs and standing back to admire the place.

It was just as panoramic as the photos had made it out to be. Certainly it was a little larger than he had expected, but there was no problem there. The walls were white-painted stone reinforced with black-painted wood, decked with ivy just like the slightly newer carport, and the windows were lovely, multi-paned affairs with old-fashioned shutters.

"Wow," Susie exclaimed admiringly from Mark's feet.

Rickie tugged on his father's shirt. "Daddy, there's some people over there."

Mark looked up towards the door of the delightful house and saw two men - one of them a balding gentleman in middle age, immaculately dressed, with 'real estate' written all over him, and the other a gaunt-looking fellow dressed in uninspiring tones of brown and beige. Putting on a bright smile, Mark strode towards them.

"You must be Mr. Leiman," said the agent as Mark approached, proffering a hand and shaking enthusiastically. "Pleased to meet you at last. My name's Donald Rooker."

"How do you do," Mark said to him, with another bright smile, and then looked at the other, plainly dressed man expectantly. His smile faltered a little as the man turned his dark, bottomless eyes on him, saying nothing for a few seconds, before finally nodding and responding in a dull, toneless voice.

"Patrick Manning, sir. Former owner of this house. Good afternoon."

Susie and Rickie rushed up. "Daddy, Daddy, can we go inside?"

"Wait a moment, children," scolded Mark severely, trying to shepherd them into order as they dashed around at his feet. Patrick Manning stared down at the children with an odd expression on his face.

"These are ... your children?" he asked, his voice wavering. "What are their names?"

"Susan and Richard," Mark replied, unnerved by Manning's intense stare. "Susie's the eldest of the two, by five minutes."

The agent, Donald Rooker, chose this point to speak up, hovering expectantly with clipboard and pen. "Adorable little things,  yes. Ah, I just love children. Now, Mr. Leiman, if you'll just sign here the house can be yours …"

"Yes, certainly." Mark took the pen that the agent offered him and scribbled his signature on the space provided. "When will I be allowed to stay on the premises?"

"Right now, Mr. Leiman," Rooker assured him. "Mr. Manning has removed all that he wishes to keep, and I assume your own belongings are coming by removalist. You may tell them to bring everything to these premises as soon as possible."

"I've left most of my things behind," Patrick Manning offered in a lifeless voice. "I don't need them anymore; you won't lack for comfort if you choose to stay the night."

Mark made a hasty grab for the twins as they tried to dodge past him. "Thank you."

As the happy agent left for his car, Manning paused for a moment and watched Mark's children tear away into the house. Suddenly an unexpected look of pain washed over his face. "I didn't know you had children," he said in a low voice. "I wouldn't have sold it to you if I'd known. Go and take back the contract, please."

"Don't be absurd," replied Mark, annoyed, but uneasily so. For some indefinable reason he was itching to see the man go. "I'm sorry, but I've signed and it's mine. Besides, Susie and Rickie are good kids. They won't wreck the place."

"I wish they would. I wish someone would. I wish it would burn to the ground." Patrick Manning dropped his eyes to the immaculately raked gravel, the pain still pulling his expression back tight and thin. "No-one can, though. I tried. When ... when the goblins first show themselves, Mr. Leiman, it is time to run. No later. Remember that."

"I'm sorry?" Thinking he had heard the man wrong, Mark laughed.

But then Manning caught his arm, just for a moment, and looked directly into his face. "The lives of your children depend upon it, Mr. Leiman. Given half a chance, They will steal your children from you."

Mark pulled free more roughly than was necessary and stalked into the house, his house, slamming the door after him. A few moments later he heard another car start and drive away, and sighed in relief. After the nutcase's little diatribe he could feel his brighter mood unravelling, a mood that was rare and fragile enough after his divorce, but stubbornly refused to lapse back into dour anger. This was a new beginning. He was home in England. He'd just bought a new house ...

Perhaps another look at the house and grounds would make things better.

Rickie tore past him, pursued closely by Susie as the two children raced for the beautiful wooden staircase. "Carefully, you two!" Mark yelled after them. "I'm going outside for just a moment, so behave yourselves!"

"Yes, Daddy!" shouted Susie's voice.

Smiling to himself, Mark peered through one of the front windows. All the cars were definitely gone - he could just see the last trail of road-dust wisping away at the end of his driveway - so he let out another small sigh and stepped outside into the sunshine.

He returned to the house after a short pace around the front yard, thoroughly cheered by the dazzling view of his grounds: wide green paddocks, a little marshy patch where a small flock of geese were gliding about, and a dense, tangled wood that started just at the south side of the house. Unfortunately it seemed a little too dark and treacherous for bushwalking. He idly wondered, as he reached for the door-handle, whether there were any safe walking tracks nearby, because there was a feral, strangely magnetic sort of beauty about that forest.

Then his musings were interrupted: as he opened the door, the twins greeted him with plaintive expressions. "Daddy, can we have some food?"

I wonder if that maniac kept a full cupboard for us, Mark thought dourly. Aloud he said, "I'll go look for some."

His new kitchen was a delight - a true country affair, full of wood tones and old-fashioned 'appliances' like the butter churn in the corner. Mark rejoiced anew that he owned this beautiful house as he walked into the pantry, then rejoiced a little more as he looked around inside: it was full to bursting of cured ham, tinned fruits, bread that had clearly been cooked earlier this morning. He grudgingly conceded that Patrick Manning was generous, even if he was insane, and took the waiting loaf of bread, looking around again on the lower shelves. A quick search of the cooler part of the pantry uncovered fresh cheese and butter.

Mark took the simple dinner out to the mahogany dining room table, and spent several moments admiring it before the squeals of his children forced him to put the food down and begin to cut slices of the crusty bread.

"And what have you little demons been up to?" he asked as they munched away.

Susie grinned through a mouthful of cheese. "We met some elves!"

"Yup," Rickie averred, bouncing up and down on his seat. "They live in the trees behind our house."

"Now, let's not be silly," reproached Mark severely. Ordinarily he was a little more tolerant of his children's fantasies, but right now their folklorish chattering came a little too soon after Patrick Manning's goblins. "There's no such thing as an elf."

"There is, there is!" cried Susie. "They're real pretty, and real nice too."

"It's nice to play pretend games sometimes," Mark told her, "but you have to realise that they're only games. You know there can't be elves."

"But they came and stood under our window!" Rickie protested. "They said they wouldn't come in the house, but they'd talk to us every day."

"I told you that's just pretending," growled Mark, the last of his good mood changing to irritation. This was just the kind of thing Miranda had always encouraged in them - stubbornness. "Don't be naughty."

"They were there," Susie muttered darkly, but dared say nothing else. The rest of the meal was spent in silence, until at last the loaf of bread was finished.

"All right, bedtime," instructed Mark, dusting off his lap as he stood up. "I'll come tuck you in, but first I have to ring the people bringing our furniture. Good grief, if I'd known Manning was going to leave all of his furniture behind I'd have sold mine …"

The children ran away upstairs after brief argument, looking mutinous. Mark located the phone in the kitchen, a quaint old relic from a post office by the looks of it, and talked for about an hour as he tried to give the removalists directions to the house. At last he hung up, satisfied, and climbed the winding staircase to the top floor.

After kissing the twins goodnight, he located the master bedroom as the second door on the left and went in. There was still a canopied old bed by one window, obviously worth a fortune, which had simply been left behind. The dressing table looked like a Chippendale, the wardrobe just as beautiful ... God, had anything been taken out of this house? Patrick Manning was definitely crazy.

Mark paused only to look at the view from his window, a moonlit panorama of the dense woods at the back of the house, before collapsing fully dressed onto his bed. The otherworldly image of the woods hung in his mind even after he'd closed his eyes, and in the grey area between drowsing and sleeping, he half-imagined he heard a strange voice:

"Sleep safely, lord. We will not let Them in."

Mark awoke later the next morning with a strange dream he could not quite remember still fogging his brain. The first thing he did was check on the children, who had chosen the southernmost bedroom. The room had obviously once been a child's room - the wallpaper was covered in brightly coloured teddy-bears holding balloons and there were two small beds, each beside a window. Susie and Rickie both slept soundly, not stirring when Mark gently stroked their fair hair and then left.

He decided to go down to the neighbouring village, Alvincroft, which they had passed through on the way to the house yesterday. It would be nice to make some new friends, after all, and it would do the children some good to get out of the house when they woke up.

By midday Mark and the twins were driving down the driveway towards the little village, both of the twins chattering about what lovely dreams they'd had. Mark let the noise blend into the background as he turned onto the 'main' road - for want of a better word - and followed the rough track to the village.

Several villagers emerged to admire the Celica as he parked it outside of a garishly painted old tavern. He gave them a meaningful look and popped his head into the tavern, firmly keeping Rickie and Susie outside.

A man glanced up at him from a bar lined with chips and sweets. "'Morning, sir."

"Good morning," replied Mark politely. "Is there anything on your menu suitable for two ravenous kids?"

The man laughed at him. "Certainly is, sir, and you might even want to bring them in to eat it. This is a restaurant nowadays, not a bar. Menu's on the wall."

Somewhat embarrassed, Mark led the children in. After a small-scale war between Susie and Rickie over what they should eat for lunch, he eventually stepped in to order a large bowl of chips and two lemonades. The twins sucked away eagerly through their straws as Mark walked back to the counter to pay for it all.

"Touring our countryside, are you, sir?" asked the man at the counter with a friendly grin.

"Moving into it, actually," Mark answered with an equally cheerful smile. "I've just bought that beautiful old house up on the hill, near the woods. I believe one Patrick Manning used to own it."

The grin froze. "Pat Manning's place? You're braver than most, sir."

"Braver?" repeated Mark.

"Yes, sir. I know every respectable rural district has to have its haunted house and local myths, but ours happen to be truer than most."

"Is that so?" Mark asked, coldly. "How very original."

His sardonic tone was rewarded with a shamefaced shrug. "Think what you like, sir, but you'll come around soon enough. They do say that every owner of that house - every owner with children, that is - lives to regret it."

"'They do say'," Mark almost sneered in disgust. "It's always 'they' and never 'us', isn't it?"

Again, the shrug. "No, sir. A bad choice of words, perhaps. In our case it's everyone. Ask around the village and you'll hear plenty about our poor Pat Manning. He used to have three sons, you know, but he treated the 'fairytales' same as you - and all three of those fine young lads disappeared on the same night, just over three months ago. The eldest was ten years old, and they slept in different rooms … what do you suppose happened to them?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me, if I stand still for long enough," Mark muttered. "Far to absurd to imagine that those boys wandered off on a midnight adventure and become lost in that forest out back, of course."

"We searched the forest, and everywhere else," snorted the man. "Those boys were never found."

"So it must be Patrick Manning's goblins," stated Mark sarcastically. "Or maybe elves?"

The man went quiet for a moment, his eyes glinting. "If you're not willing to listen, sir, I can't help that," he told Mark. "But those are lovely children you've got there. For the love of Heaven, the moment you spot one of Them, you run for it!"

Mark dropped the money on the counter and moved away, disgusted. Susie and Rickie had already polished off their chips - never slow to move where deep-fried food was involved - so he marched them out of the building with lemonade in hand and ushered them into the car.

"Bloody goblins," he growled irritably as he put the Celica into reverse.

Upon arriving home, the first thing the children did was rush upstairs to their room. Mark moved to follow them - another rest in that magnificent canopied bed would be nice - but to his annoyance the telephone rang. It was the removalists; there had been a delay with his furniture, and it might have to get there a day later. Mark argued, cajoled and pleaded to no avail, ending the conversation by slamming down the phone and stalking upstairs.

Passing by the children's door, he heard giggling. He smiled and opened it, only to see Susie and Rickie half-leaning out of their window.

"Hey! Stop that!" he cried, rushing over and dragging them back inside. "Don't play around the window, it's dangerous!"

"We weren't playing," Susie declared, "we were talking to the elves."

"For the last time, there are no elves!" snapped Mark angrily. "Let's have done with that nonsense for good, shall we?"

"But they come to the window and talk to us, Daddy!" wailed Rickie. "Don't you believe us? They were right there a minute ago, but when you came they ran away!"

Mark's expression softened. "All right," he sighed, "we'll play your game for a while. But you have to promise me that you'll send the elves away before dinner. All right?"

"They're so nice!" Susie protested. "I don't want to send them away! What if the goblins come instead?"

"Goblins?" Mark asked, startled. "Who's been telling you about goblins?"

"The elves, Daddy!" repeated Susie. "They say the goblins are ugly and horrible, but it's okay, because the elves will take care of them!"

"Enough about elves! I'm getting very angry, Susie! Now who's been telling you about goblins?"

"It was the elves, it was!" sobbed Rickie, and burst into tears.

Mark felt deeply perplexed. The thought of being naughty children usually never failed to make them tell the truth - who had frightened his little twins into spouting this rubbish? "Shh," he soothed, gathering Rickie up into his arms and hugging him. "It's all right. Don't cry, Rickie. Where's your lemonade gone? Surely you haven't drunk it all already!"

"We gave some to the elves, but they didn't like it," sniffled Rickie.

Stopping himself just in time from scolding the children again, Mark put his son down and wearily looked around for a wet patch. There was, thankfully, no trace of lemonade on the floor or the beds, so he decided they must have tipped it out of the window. He yawned and put the incident out of his mind, feeling too tired to worry about games with elves.

Out in the corridor again, Mark walked in to his room and headed straight for the suitcase that he had unloaded from the car earlier that morning. He changed, ready for bed, and was just about to slide under the covers when he found a note on his pillow.

Mark picked it up, unfolded it and glanced at the message.

May we have your lovely children, lord of this house?

"That's it!" he snarled furiously. It was a prank, a mindless prank played by one of those country bumpkins in the village. Could it be Patrick Manning himself? Mark could just imagine the lunatic creeping around his house - yes, Manning would be the only one who might still have a key to the front door. Well, first thing in the morning he'd ring the agents and ask for Manning's address. Then there'd be hell to pay!

Ripping the note into tiny pieces, he scattered them across the dresser and flung himself into bed. Sleep came slowly to his seething mind, but once again before it took over entirely he thought he heard another voice:

"Do not let Them frighten you, lord. We will keep your children safe."

"Hello? Mr. Rooker? Yes, this is Mark Leiman. No, there's no problem with the house; it's perfect. But listen, can you give me Patrick Manning's current address or phone number? Something's come up, and I need to ...

"He's what? Oh … oh, I'm sorry. No ... no, that's all right, it was nothing important. Yes, please pass on my sympathies. Thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Rooker."

Mark slowly hung up the phone, with Donald Rooker's words sounding again in his head. Mr. Manning is dead, I'm afraid. They found him late yesterday morning in his car - a suicide by exhaust fumes. Dreadful business ...

"Well," Mark said to himself, drawing a deep breath. "It wasn't Manning, then. I wonder if it was that damned fool in the restaurant ..."

At this juncture Rickie and Susie ran into the kitchen, their giggling dispelling all dark thoughts. "Hi, Daddy!"

"Hello, you menaces," he laughed, kneeling down and giving them a huge hug. "What's the joke?"

"One of the elves gave me a kiss," Susie crowed, pointing to her cheek. "He climbed all the way to the window, but he couldn't come in."

"More elves?" Mark groaned.

"Yup," averred little Rickie. "They said they really love us, and they'll keep us from the rotten goblins."

"That's nice," he answered vaguely.

"So we're all safe now!" Susie added.

"Good, sweetheart. Go and play, but watch out for the window."

When the children had gone, Mark thought back over the note he'd read and shuddered at the thought of a lunatic creeping around in the house with his twins. Who had written it? Who had left it? Was there a groundsman with a key he didn't know about, or a maid Manning had employed?

Mark scowled, a grimace born of frustration, stalking upstairs and into his room. A furtive glance at his pillow did not reveal another note, which was at least something to be thankful for. He began searching through his suitcase, rummaging through the clothes and personal items before he finally found what he was looking for: a small revolver that he kept for personal safety.

Tonight he'd lock the children's door and teach anyone he caught a damn good lesson.

Suddenly, only a faint noise from the second floor, Mark heard the doorbell ring. He ran down the stairs into the entry hall, cursing his 'old bones', and opened the door to the wizened, good-natured face of a truly old man in a faded blue postal outfit.

"Ah, good morning to yer," the old postman said jovially in thick Irish brogue, his eyes disappearing into cheerful crinkles as he smiled and held out an envelope. "I did hear there was another up in the house now."

"I didn't expect door-to-door mail service," replied Mark, returning the smile. "True what they say about countryfolk, eh?"

The old man broke into a wheezy chuckle, watching Mark take the envelope. "That they're helpful, or that they're daft? I'll not hedge me bets." With a last grin he turned and set off down the driveway again, walking strongly and steadily despite his age.

Mark shook his head slightly, the smile still faintly on his lips, and pushed the front door shut with an elbow as he opened the small envelope he'd been handed. Unfolding two plain sheets of paper inside, Mark began to read the untidy writing, and the smile dropped off his face like a plummeting stone.

Dear Mr. Leiman,

I am so sorry that I couldn't convey what I meant to say on the morning you bought my house. Please read this letter well instead - for the sake of your beautiful children, not for me. I have already lost mine. There is nothing left in the world to replace them. You must know that yourself.

I have left specific instructions in my will that you be reimbursed for the house you bought. Please take the money and leave at once. There is an old fight going on in that house, a fight between its guardians and the enemies of the 'lord' of the house, and those of our world foolish enough to buy into that war never escape the better for it. You and I, sceptics, are the kind of people whom They love to deal with.

I remember the man who sold me this house - I thought him insane within five minutes of meeting him, just as you must think me. He tried to warn me just as I am warning you now. I ignored him. But that very night, as I put my boys to bed, I found a note. It was the first of many. I curse myself that I never took its advice:

This is the house of Children Lost
And all of those who stay
Will have themselves a merry time
Before being whisked away!
Have you the wit, lord of this house,
To take your kin and run?
Know this, O lord: if you do not
We shall yet have our fun ...

I blamed my boys for the note, of course. But late one evening, in defiance of all the reason that men like you and I are raised on, I saw a twisted, stunted creature outside my eldest boy's bedroom. Yes, a 'goblin'. I was terrified! But I snatched the creature up and threw it against the wall, shook it, beat it, until it finally stopped moving. Others rushed out at me, shrieking, but I chased them all away - and once they were gone I thought the worst must be over.

But when I searched the bedrooms, the boys were missing. No amount of searching ever found them again.
I made a terrible mistake. Please, Mr. Leiman, get your children out of that house.

- Patrick Manning

In a sour mix of anger and anxiety Mark screwed the letter into a ball and hurled it across the floor, glaring at it as it skittered over the old carpet. Was someone pretending to be Patrick Manning? Was Patrick Manning even dead? Perhaps this was a long-term real estate scam set up to fleece more gullible buyers. Or just an insane stalker unable to let go of his old house. Mark's mind whirled with all the possibilities, but before he could even begin to sort them out inside his head, the phone suddenly stuttered its peculiar old dialling tone in the kitchen.

An argument over the telephone took up the better part of an hour; Mark's furniture was delayed yet again. It did little to improve his mood, and the phone conversation ended with him slamming down the phone in exasperation. This was ridiculous.

Mark took the children for a walk around the grounds to calm himself down, relaxing as he listened to their chatter. As they walked he kept a sharp lookout on and around the house and yard, but he saw no-one. The long driveway was easy to keep an eye on, even when they were ten minutes' walk from the house, and so were the green paddocks - the woods worried him, but he decided to deal with that later.

For dinner that evening Mark made sandwiches. It wasn't much of a dinner, but he hadn't been willing to go back to the restaurant with its strange owner. Still, the twins seemed happy enough by the time they went to bed. Mark tucked them in, told them not to whisper for too long after lights out, and then quietly locked the door behind him.

Retrieving a book from his suitcase, Mark returned downstairs and sat comfortably in a chair near one of the large front windows. He read for about half an hour and then began to doze, lightly.

The loud, sparkling crash of glass jolted him into horrified wakefulness. Mark sat up with a shout amidst a shower of shining fragments, touching fingers to his face - they came away coated in warm blood. His lovely window was completely broken, and as Mark ferociously glared outside and around the broken window, he saw what seemed to be a white stone lying amidst the glinting glass.

Moving slowly, painfully, Mark picked up the object. It wasn't a white stone; it was a note tied to a common garden rock by a silken red ribbon. He unravelled the note and read it with simmering rage.

Before the night is through your children will be lost to you, lord of this house!

"Where are you?" he roared, pulling out his revolver. "If I find you anywhere near my children I'll make you regret it, you bloody lunatic!"

Mark leaped out through the shattered window, ignoring the pain in his face, and looked around for the stone-thrower. He saw no-one. Surely the madman who'd thrown the rock couldn't have run away so fast! There was a clear line of sight from where he stood to the driveway and the fields, but not a soul could be seen.

Still seething, Mark peered into the darkness for several moments more and then stepped back through the window. They'd got away - but not for long. In the morning he'd damn well go down to the village and interrogate every last one of them until he knew who was responsible! Caught between frustration and fury, he bent down to try and scrape up some of the more dangerous glass shards, and then dropped them from nerveless fingers as an awful sound split the air.

From the rooms above, two tiny voices rose in shrill, drawn-out screams of fear.

The twins! But ... he'd locked their door, and no-one could possibly have entered the house! Fear sank deadly, cold claws into Mark's heart as he hit the stairs at a dead run, hearing Patrick Manning's hollow voice in his mind - "Given half a chance, They will steal your children from you."

It somehow came as no surprise when he reached the top of the stairs and saw a short, ugly-looking creature with green skin struggling at the twins' doorknob. Mark didn't hesitate. He raised his revolver and aimed with a steady hand.

"No!" cried the goblin, turning to face him. "You must -"

Mark fired. The stricken creature reeled back, sliding to the floor, and suddenly more of the goblins rushed out of hiding; they scuttled towards the dying creature with wails and cries. In panic Mark continued to shoot, his hand trembling as he tried to aim, until at last the goblins stopped trying to approach and fled his attack by leaping from the corridor window.

A sudden, biting coldness filled the house. Mark froze in sudden apprehension as he finally realised where he'd heard the first goblin's voice before - the kind, warm voice that had spoken to him each night before he slept.

Given half a chance, They will steal your children from you …

"Damn you, Manning!" Mark shouted, heading for the twins' door in desperation. "It's not the bloody goblins!"

He kicked down the solid door and flung himself into the room, his revolver raised and ready to fire, but the only things moving in the room were the curtains, drifting on the breeze sent in by the open window.

Faintly in the distance sang the musical, dark laughter of the elves ...