The New Uncanny by Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek Page A
Authors: Etgar Keret, Ramsey Campbell, Hanif Kureishi, Christopher Priest, Jane Rogers, A.S. Byatt, Matthew Holness, Adam Marek
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beyond it the light from the streetlamp.
She stepped back close to the window and peered out into the night. There was a car parked in the road not far from the entrance to her house. It was unusual to see any car here after dark. She swished the floor-length curtains closed.
A book fell off the windowsill, landed on the carpet by her feet. She picked it up, closed it, laid it on the cupboard.
She had lived alone in this house from the start, when she bought it after Pieter’s sudden death. Then it had been an escape, a new challenge and a fresh start. She became an unwilling widow, a single woman again, a role she had not expected. Piet’s death was something she had no control over, but she had felt that a change of scene afterwards was necessary. As the months and years went by, she grew comfortably into this place by the sea, always missing Piet, full of regrets about things they had never had the chance to do together, but getting by.
She had never felt threatened by her solitude, before this. There was no one to help her. The silence of the house surrounded her, enveloped her fears. Who had been in? Were they still there?
In the hallway again, she called, ‘Hike? Is it you?’
So silent. She heard a familiar clicking sound from the kitchen, and the thump of the gas boiler igniting itself. Emboldened momentarily, she pushed open the second door, which led to the living room with the kitchen beyond, and stood in the doorway as she turned on the light.
For a moment she realized how exposed and vulnerable she was, should there in fact be anyone lurking in the darkness within, but the light came on and filled the room with comforting normality. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. One of her books lay in the centre of the carpet, held open by one of her shoes. She walked past, went into the kitchen and turned on the light there. The fluorescent strip flashed noisily twice, then settled to its pink-white glare. In the corner was the boiler with its blue flame, visible through the inspection glass, the same as always. No one was there, no one concealed under the table, behind the open cupboard door. She looked everywhere. The door that led to the back of the house, the yard, the garden, finally to the open clifftop, was still securely locked and bolted.
She did not remember leaving the cupboard door open when she went out. It was normally kept closed, because it jutted into the room. She looked inside – everything seemed to be in place. She looked in the fridge: no food had been taken.
She knew she had to go upstairs, search the rooms there.
She returned to the hall, looked at her bag holding the door closed. The lock hung away from its fitting. Bright scratches of exposed metal flared around it, where the paint had been scraped away. There was a deep groove where whatever had been used had dug in.
Why should someone be so desperate to break in? It had to be Hike – he was furious when she made him give her key back. But would Hike, even Hike, attack the door so violently?
She stood still, holding her breath, trying to detect the slightest sound from the upper floors. Next, she had to search upstairs. She was shaking with fear. She had not known such a reaction was possible, but when she looked at her hands she could not keep them still. Both her kneecaps were twitching and aching. She wanted to sit down, lie down, stop all this, return to the fear-free sanity she had known until three or four minutes before.
At the bottom of the stairs she laid a hand on the bannisters, looked up at the familiar carpet, the old one that had been here when she bought the house and which she had been meaning to replace ever since. Every worn patch, every strand of exposed canvas, was reassuringly familiar. She took another breath, then changed her mind. She hurried into her office, leaving the door in the hallway wide open so that she could see into the hall, and pulled her mobile from her pocket. She pressed the numbers
She stepped back close to the window and peered out into the night. There was a car parked in the road not far from the entrance to her house. It was unusual to see any car here after dark. She swished the floor-length curtains closed.
A book fell off the windowsill, landed on the carpet by her feet. She picked it up, closed it, laid it on the cupboard.
She had lived alone in this house from the start, when she bought it after Pieter’s sudden death. Then it had been an escape, a new challenge and a fresh start. She became an unwilling widow, a single woman again, a role she had not expected. Piet’s death was something she had no control over, but she had felt that a change of scene afterwards was necessary. As the months and years went by, she grew comfortably into this place by the sea, always missing Piet, full of regrets about things they had never had the chance to do together, but getting by.
She had never felt threatened by her solitude, before this. There was no one to help her. The silence of the house surrounded her, enveloped her fears. Who had been in? Were they still there?
In the hallway again, she called, ‘Hike? Is it you?’
So silent. She heard a familiar clicking sound from the kitchen, and the thump of the gas boiler igniting itself. Emboldened momentarily, she pushed open the second door, which led to the living room with the kitchen beyond, and stood in the doorway as she turned on the light.
For a moment she realized how exposed and vulnerable she was, should there in fact be anyone lurking in the darkness within, but the light came on and filled the room with comforting normality. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. One of her books lay in the centre of the carpet, held open by one of her shoes. She walked past, went into the kitchen and turned on the light there. The fluorescent strip flashed noisily twice, then settled to its pink-white glare. In the corner was the boiler with its blue flame, visible through the inspection glass, the same as always. No one was there, no one concealed under the table, behind the open cupboard door. She looked everywhere. The door that led to the back of the house, the yard, the garden, finally to the open clifftop, was still securely locked and bolted.
She did not remember leaving the cupboard door open when she went out. It was normally kept closed, because it jutted into the room. She looked inside – everything seemed to be in place. She looked in the fridge: no food had been taken.
She knew she had to go upstairs, search the rooms there.
She returned to the hall, looked at her bag holding the door closed. The lock hung away from its fitting. Bright scratches of exposed metal flared around it, where the paint had been scraped away. There was a deep groove where whatever had been used had dug in.
Why should someone be so desperate to break in? It had to be Hike – he was furious when she made him give her key back. But would Hike, even Hike, attack the door so violently?
She stood still, holding her breath, trying to detect the slightest sound from the upper floors. Next, she had to search upstairs. She was shaking with fear. She had not known such a reaction was possible, but when she looked at her hands she could not keep them still. Both her kneecaps were twitching and aching. She wanted to sit down, lie down, stop all this, return to the fear-free sanity she had known until three or four minutes before.
At the bottom of the stairs she laid a hand on the bannisters, looked up at the familiar carpet, the old one that had been here when she bought the house and which she had been meaning to replace ever since. Every worn patch, every strand of exposed canvas, was reassuringly familiar. She took another breath, then changed her mind. She hurried into her office, leaving the door in the hallway wide open so that she could see into the hall, and pulled her mobile from her pocket. She pressed the numbers
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