Bricking It

by Nick Spalding

‘It’s not that bad, Danny.’ ‘Not that bad?’ he replies in dismay. ‘Half the bloody roof is gone!’ ‘It’s certainly seen better days, I can’t argue with you there.’ ‘When exactly were they? Before or after someone set fire to it?’

large soot marks scorched across the left-hand corner of the house. ‘I don’t think the damage is too bad, actually.’ Danny gives me a look. ‘I’m just trying to stay positive,’ I tell him, through only slightly gritted teeth. ‘This was Grandma’s last gift to us.’ ‘Gift?’ he replies

savings,’ I reply, as quietly as I can, so it doesn’t sound so bad. ‘And just remind me again, sister dearest. What are they doing with all that lovely cash?’ ‘You know what they’re doing with it, Dan.’ ‘No, no. Come

year-long cruise around the world.’ I sigh. Danny nods angrily. ‘Yes, indeed. That’s what our loving parents are doing with their part of Grandma’s inheritance.’ He waves a hand at the crumbling house. ‘While we get to stare at this crap magnet and decide what the hell to do with it.’

work involve several sticks of dynamite?’ ‘Oh, give it a rest. It’s not that bad.

noticing that my eyes have gone flinty and narrow. Instead of making yet another smart-arse comment he returns his gaze to the house. ‘What did you say it was again?’ he asks me, trying to sound more upbeat. ‘A

are nice.’ ‘And the place is quite . . . symmetrical I guess. That’s good.’ ‘It is. Double-fronted, I think it’s known as.’ ‘The walls

moments of silence follow. ‘I’m sure the front door was nice once. You know, when it wasn’t quite so rotten.’ ‘You’re

his face with both hands. ‘And nobody knew Grandma owned this place?’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Not

both gobsmacked to be told that we’d inherited this place. My brother and I knew very little of Grandma’s past before she married Granddad in the sixties, and moved into the vicarage with him. This must have been the house

telling anyone? These questions have been buzzing round my head for weeks. They will probably continue to do so, as I have no real way of

Danny, standing in front of the doorstep, looking down at the cowpat. ‘It’s still steaming,’ he remarks. I look around for the cow that left it, but none is immediately apparent.

inside?’ I say, as I pinch two fingers over my nose. Danny peers through the large crack in what’s left of the oak front door. ‘I’m not sure I want to. There could be anything in there. Rats . . . spiders . . . the Grim Reaper.’ ‘Well, I’m not standing out here smelling that thing for any longer,’

Duty T-shirt. Mind you, this is what Danny wears all of the time, so I doubt he put much thought into it. Nevertheless, into the dirty house I must go, so I’ll just have to avoid

says, his eyes wide. ‘Very funny,’ I reply, trying not to wince too much as I turn the door key to the right. This does very little, other than dislodge some rust from the surface of both key and lock. ‘Try the left,’ Danny offers. I do so, with no improvement. ‘Wiggle it?’ ‘I am wiggling

that than the thick black carpet of mould that runs along most of the skirting boards, though. To my left is the dining room. At least I assume it’s the dining room, given that there is a three-legged table leaning drunkenly against one wall. To my right is what could be a living room. There’s certainly a fireplace in there. What horrors may lurk

wallpaper, mouldy skirting boards and decades of old filth. Lovely. On a more positive note, they also feature some rather ornate architraves and ceiling roses that once looked very grand, I’m sure. I venture slowly down the hallway towards my brother, and what’s left of the kitchen. As I do, I notice a doorway under the staircase and steps leading down into the darkness below, to what I can only assume is Stephen King’s basement. Suppressing a shudder, I enter the kitchen and walk over to where Danny is sat on a rickety chair, nursing his ankle. ‘Are you alright?’