99

Jacob Mills’ best friend, Peter Marsden, had been begging him for months to break into 99 Forde Road with him. He said maybe they would find a dead body in there, or maybe they would meet a ghost, or get chased by a zombie.

None of these things particularly appealed to Jacob, but Peter kept on and on at him, wearing him down, bit by bit.

The dilapidated Victorian house had been empty for as long as they could remember. Every morning, as they walked past it on their way to school, they’d tell each other stories about ghosts wandering through the deserted rooms and corridors, skeletal hands clawing at the bannisters as they shuffled down the stairs, blood dripping from their empty eye sockets. That’s how Jacob wanted it to stay, a house they visited only in their imaginations.

The house had been constructed of odd angles and weird extensions. Over the years, sections of it seemed to have sunk slightly, giving the rambling, pointed structure an even more unsettling appearance. Dark windows of different shapes and sizes sat uncomfortably with one another, some of them so recessed under the eaves it was difficult to imagine how they could receive any natural light. Vines trailed all across the frontage, around the weathered window frames and over the front door. Even the tall, tottering chimney pots were being slowly strangled by long, green fingers.

Jacob was half convinced that one day he would walk past, and the house would be gone, completely hidden by a mound of twisted greenery.

A set of wide stone steps, chipped and discoloured from years of neglect, led up to the front door. Two stone gargoyles guarded the steps, squatting on pillars, their fat lips set in permanent sneers, baring their teeth at anyone foolish enough to approach them.

Jacob could never imagine himself walking past those gargoyles, fearful that they would spring to life, and pounce on him, sinking their stone teeth into his stomach and ripping out his guts.