Rogue Landlord

Supernatural horror. When Simon's landlord shirks his responsibilities, it's up to his mother to take matters into her own hands.

On a damp Wednesday evening in November, Carol Murphy took out the bins, fed the cat, vacuumed the hallway, packed lunch for the next morning and sat down the sofa, ready to make war. Her laptop was her field of operations, her keyboard armed with targeted missiles, and she was not afraid to go nuclear.

The cause of her ire was her 23-year-old son’s flat: his first stab at independence. She wasn’t sure what annoyed her most. The live wire dangling from the ceiling. The blossoming black mould. The broken radiators. The pile of rat droppings behind the fridge. Or perhaps that fact that when she plugged her phone into the wall socket, it started to spark.

‘This place is a death trap, Simon,’ she’d announced, squinting at one of the larger cracks in the ceiling. ‘Have you complained?’

Simon made his usual non-committal sound.

‘Don’t grunt at me. You can’t live like this.’

Simon flopped onto the sofa. ‘It’s fine, Mum. Stop fussing.’

Carol resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So typical of her son to let other people steamroll over him, even when his health was at stake.

‘You can’t stay here like this. Come back home until it’s all fixed.’

Simon stared at her, his fingers tightening around the sofa arm. The bulb above them flared brighter, and she could see more clearly the thinness of his cheeks, the redness around the eyelids, the dilated pupils. For a fleeting second, she feared he might be on drugs.

Then the moment passed and he was her son again.

‘I’ll call the landlord tomorrow, if that’s what you want,’ he said, letting go of the sofa arm. ‘Just promise me you’ll let me handle it?’

She promised of course. How could she not? But as soon as she got home, she found her rent guarantor paperwork and set to work.

Carol took one last thorough proofread of her concise but incisively worded complaint (one side of 12-point A4, 1.5 line spacing). Satisfied with the result, she printed the letter, folded it neatly into three then placed it inside a crisp white envelope with a pre-applied stamp, ready for posting on her way to work next morning.

She knew her son wouldn’t be best pleased by her interference. But if she did nothing, it was going to be case of which death trap snared him first: rabies, pneumonia or electrocution. He’d thank her later.

#

Three days after popping the letter in the post box, the reply came in a thick, creamy envelope addressed to Mrs David Evans.

Carol rankled at the outdated sexism and mention of her good-for-nothing ex-husband, yet admired the fineness and quality of the penmanship, so she opened the envelope with her “special occasions” oakwood letter opener. The paper was heavy and pleasantly velvety, and contained a few handwritten lines in a large and elegant cursive:

“Dear Mrs David Murphy,

Thank you for your letter.

You are cordially invited to attend a meeting at my home this Saturday, 8pm sharp, to discuss your concerns in person.

With kind regards.”

The rest was blank. It seemed this landlord appreciated brevity and directness, as well as a taste for the old-fashioned.

Carol could respect that.

That night, she drove for over two hours to the landlord’s address, wondering whether this was all going to be worthwhile. She already felt somewhat overdressed in her teal silk blouse, jacket and matching A-line skirt. Then again, it always paid to put in a little effort.

She parked her Ford Fiesta in front of a pair of tall iron gates at the end of a winding country lane. Two brass lion heads glared balefully down at her as she looked for an intercom that wasn’t there.

‘Oh dear,’ Carol muttered.

She was about to get back in her car when the gates swung open, revealing a stone-paved pathway.

Carol stepped across the threshold. The gates clanged shut behind her.

Another woman might have been frightened. Instead, Carol held her phone sensibly aloft as she marched uphill. As she walked, a fog descended, so thick that she could only see five feet ahead in the light of her phone torch. Cold air bit right through her tights, her thick woollen coat her only protection. She hugged it close, not slowing down.

At long last, the path began to flatten and she found herself in the presence of an immense, sprawling property, the sort that ought to be owned by the National Trust and have a café and a car park. But this manor was shadowy and alone on its hill, the only light appearing in one of the upstairs windows. The fog drew closer and colder, pushing her towards the front door.

She approached with firm, careful steps, determined not to falter. The door knocker was in the shape of a hideous gargoyle, with bulbous eyes and a fanged-toothed mouth. It leered at her with gleeful malevolence, daring her to touch it.

Carol grabbed the knocker in one hand. The metal was so cold it became sharp, gnawing at her palm. She slammed it into the door.

‘Hello there. Anyone in?’

No one responded. Not daring to touch the knocker again, Carol rapped on the wood with her bare knuckles.

‘Excuse me? I have an appointment?’

The sound of her own voice echoed in the cold, empty silence.

‘Fine then. I’ll come back in the morning.’

The door creaked open.

Carol entered the dimly lit hallway. Tall, waxy candles hung from the ceiling, casting lingering shadows. On the walls, oak panelling met dark green wallpaper, creating a heavy, oppressive feeling. Old, uneven wooden floorboards creaked beneath Carol’s feet. She took a single, hesitant step.

‘Good evening, Mrs Murphy.’

Carol twisted her head. An older, slightly-boned man in a faded butler’s uniform stood several feet away, his white hair short and neatly parted. The expression in his bright blue eyes was polite and unrevealing.

‘Please,’ he said, stretching out his arm. For a horrible moment, Carol feared he meant to grab her.

But he was only trying to take her coat.

For politeness’ sake, Carol reluctantly shrugged off the heavy woollen garment. Inside the house was barely warmer than the exterior, and her breath steamed out in clouds.

‘Thank you. As I said, I’m due to meet with—’

‘Of course. He is almost ready for you.’

I very much doubt it, Carol thought crossly, following the man up the stairs.

#

Seated herself in front of the crackling fireplace, Carol checked her watch for the umpteenth time. She’d been waiting in this room for almost an hour, with no phone signal and little to look at but oil painted lords and ladies in powdered wigs, staring snootily down upon her.

Carol glared right back at the dusty aristocrats of yore, rehearsing all the stern words she was going to have with this landlord when he finally had the decency to show.

‘Mrs Murphy.’

The servant appeared at her elbow, making her jump.

‘Don’t sneak up on people like that,’ she snapped, trying her best to look unruffled. ‘It’s impolite.’

‘My apologies. The Master will see you now.’

And he backed out of the room.

Carol straightened in the wooden chair, trying her best to ignore a cold prickling at the nape of her neck. She would not get up when he entered. She would not show him the respect.

The prickling on her nape spread down through her spine, trickling into her limbs, her breath steaming out in a cloud. She wanted to run, but her own body was reacting against her. She sat rooted to the chair, waiting for whatever was coming for her.

And then one of the paintings began to move.

Carol jolted in her chair. The large frame creaked forwards on an unseen hinge, swinging open to reveal a white haired, fine boned man in a velvet smoking jacket and slippers.

He stepped down onto the floor, which creaked despite his spindly frame, and he walked to the fire, picked up a poker and re-arranged the coal while Carol glared at him, the icy prickling turning to the heat of confusion and rage as she recognised the supposed servant.

‘Forgive an old man his fun,’ he said, seating himself beside her by the fire.

Carol bristled. The foolish trickery had unnerved her for a moment, but she would not be thrown off course.

‘I haven’t time for silliness. Can we discuss the situation?’

The landlord smiled, his teeth white, even and false. ‘Of course. I pride myself on the welfare of my tenants.’

Carol gripped the chair arms tighter. ‘In that case, I assume you won’t hesitate to make the necessary repairs.’

‘Oh yes. If they are indeed necessary.’

They watched each other, chess players over an unseen game.

‘I will be contacting the council,’ said Carol. ‘And environmental health.’

‘Of course. I would expect nothing less.’

The landlord’s smile did not falter. He really thought he was going to get away with it. Well, she wouldn’t let him. She would harangue the council, the MP, even the courts if she had to. Anything to wipe off that vile little smirk.

Her opponent seemed oblivious to her vicious thoughts. He got up from his chair, gesturing at the painting he had recently emerged from.

‘This portrait is late 16^th Century,’ he said, with the quiet confidence of a man used to people hanging onto his every word. ‘Note the sober colouring of the fabric.’

Carol had no desire to note anything.

‘What of it?’ she snapped back.

‘Patience,’ chided the landlord. ‘Now see here, this portrait.’ He moved slightly to his left. ‘This painting is a mere 100 years old. See the vivacity of the colour! A time when men weren’t afraid to display their power in pomp and ceremony. When men could be bold.’

And with that, he reached toward the frame of the painting and pulled.

Carol couldn’t help but gasp. She gazed into cavernous space behind the painting, large as her living room and full of money. Piles and piles and piles of the stuff, more than she had ever seen in her life. In an age when currency was just meaningless numbers, unfathomable billions and trillions, this was wealth made concrete, made comprehensible.

Carol thought of what that money – even a mere tenth of it – could do for Simon. He could buy a place of his own, go to university, set up his own business if he wanted to. A real start in life.

And it was but an arm’s length away.

‘Don’t you have a bank?’ she asked at last, trying to distract herself from the impulse to start shovelling bank notes into her handbag.

The landlord laughed. ‘Of course. My account holds enough for several lifetimes. This little trove is… a personal hobby. Something I’d rather keep off the books.’

Still overwhelmed by sheer wealth, Carol found herself stammering. ‘Is that even legal?’

The landlord did not answer. He merely smiled and shut the painting, severing the money’s magnetic hold. Carol felt the sudden, vital clarity of leverage.

‘If you don’t sort out my son’s repairs first thing tomorrow,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘I’ll report this to HMRC.’

Something dark flashed in the landlord’s eyes. The flames in the fireplace rose higher, the crackling grate snapping like bones.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said, in a low, quiet voice. ‘You see, I had a little help.’

And he pointed behind her.

For the first time in her life, Carol did not know what to say. She tried to get her lips to form a sentence, her lungs to expel the shock inside her. But nothing came out.

She turned around, made herself look at Simon, his brown hair too long and greasy, his clothes oversized and stained, his eyes fixed on the floor. But he was still the same young man. He was still her son.

The landlord stepped round her, putting his arm around him.

‘We’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we? My protégé.’

Carol felt a primal anxiety that had plagued her since the midwife placed the tiny screaming bundle in her arms. She tried to grab Simon’s arm, to snatch him away, but he flinched from her touch.

‘That’s right, Simon,’ cooed the landlord. ‘Stand up to the old battleaxe.’

Carol’s neatly trimmed nails dug into her palms. She wanted to smack the old man right in the face, but his grip on her son held her back.

‘What have you done to him?’ she said quietly.

‘I? Why, I have done nothing. I merely gave your son a job.’

‘But he’s already got a job.’

Simon’s skin began to flush, a scarlet spread of shame reaching across his cheeks and down as far as his Adam’s apple. The landlord laughed, dark and cold.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Murphy, my line of work is a little more… lucrative than a warehouse. If a little less legal.’

Carol spluttered. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Why madam, that your son is a professional thief.’

Carol could hardly speak. Her Simon? A thief? No, impossible.

‘Oh dear.’ The landlord raised a hand to his mouth in mock gasp. ‘I think you may not know your son as well as I do. When we met, he was in quite a lot of debt - gambling, mostly. I offered him a chance to free himself. He rose to the task - with a great deal of aptitude and enthusiasm.’

The words smacked into Carol, leaving her reeling. ‘Simon, is this true?’

The young man mumbled non-committally, hands buried in his hoodie pockets. He looked ten years younger and somehow aged, the firelight deepening the shadows beneath his eyes, the hollowness of his cheekbones.

‘Don’t be too hard on the boy,’ said the landlord, tugging the young man closer. ‘He has tremendous work ethic. Worked his way up from delivery boy to one of my finest thieves. Managed to clear his debt, and even save up a little on the side.’

The landlord’s face darkened.

‘Only then, of course, he decided to catch a conscience. He wanted to quit, go clean, get a “real job” – which posed quite the challenge to me, because he was such a valuable asset – and I didn’t quite trust him not to blab. As you can appreciate in this line of work, one requires… guarantees.’

The landlord patted Simon on the head.

‘Our agreement is a little unorthodox, I’ll admit. But it works wonders.’

‘Yes, Master,’ said Simon meekly.

Carol held her ground. Inside, she was a convulsion.

All her life, she had fought to protect Simon. Average at best, his teachers said, too prone to going along with the crowd. Even his own father had told her he was only good for stacking shelves – “and not in a bad way, shelves don’t stack themselves”.

Carol had never permitted this type of negativity. She kept her boy close, bolstering his confidence at every opportunity, crushing the opposition, shoving him forwards where he shrank back.

Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Her precious boy had fallen into a trap. Held too tightly by her apron strings, he’d fled from her at the first opportunity, falling straight into the arms of this – this creature, who smirked at her like a self-satisfied cane toad.

‘Simon,’ she said quietly, pushing down her growing terror. ‘Whatever hold this man has got over you, we can sort it out. Just come with me.’

And she held out a hand.

For a moment, it looked like it might work. His hand drifted upwards, ever so slowly. Then it fell down limply. His eyes glazed over.

‘I must stay with the Master,’ he said tonelessly.

Carol grabbed his arm. It was like trying to move a statue. He looked so frail, as if he might be dying. Yet the blankness in his eyes was hardening into something else, something red and misty and very, very frightening.

‘Go away,’ he said, in a voice that wasn’t like Simon at all.

And he lunged.

Carol jumped back, stumbling on the uneven floorboards in her court heeled shoes.

He ignored her screams, took advantage of her lack of balance and shoved her down. She tried to kick him off, but it was useless; he was too heavy to throw off. Before he’d been her son and now, he was a six-foot two man in his twenties, ready to kill.

Simon’s fingers wrapped round her throat. Tears blistered in her eyes.

Please, she prayed. Don’t let me die like this.

As she lay there, helpless, she caught sight of something in the corner of her eye. With a flailing hand, she grasped the end of the poker, sticking out of the fireplace, and slammed it against Simon’s back.

Simon’s scream was unholy. He reared up just enough to let her slip from his grasp, and she ran for the door, hurling her body against the wood.

It wouldn’t move.

Carol sprinted towards the other end of the room. Her only chance was to dive through the secret entrance behind the painting. She dodged round the landlord’s desk, diving towards it.

Simon was faster. He vaulted over the desk, landing in front of her, mouth twisted into a beastlike snarl.

Tears stung Carol’s eyes. She held the poker out, the heated end pointed at Simon’s stomach.

‘Stay back,’ she said, with a confidence she did not feel.

Simon grabbed the hot end of poker, uncaring of his own scalded flesh. He yanked it from her grasp and whirled it around, the heated end mere centimetres from her flesh.

The landlord’s mocking laughter rang in Carol’s ears. Her own son was going to skewer her, like a kebab. There was only one thing left to do.

‘SIMON BERNARD DANIEL MURPHY,’ she screamed. ‘Drop that thing THIS MINUTE.’

Simon’s mouth opened, fishlike. He dropped the poker.

‘What are you doing?’ The landlord hopped with rage. ‘Kill her! I order you to kill her!’

Simon eyes flicked from his master to his mother. He tried to pick up the poker again, then stopped, then tried again, then stopped. His whole body began to judder violently.

‘I-I-I-’ he stammered. ‘I d-d-don’t…’

‘Listen to your mother.’

‘Y-y-yes, I mean n-n-no. I mean—'

The landlord let out a small shriek, like a banshee with particularly low lung capacity. With terrifying speed, he shoved Simon aside and snatched the poker from the floor, pointing it at Carol with a look of triumph.

‘You’re mine now,’ he snarled, and swung.

Or at least, he tried to.

Simon gripped the poker in his fist, the heated end scalding his palm. Tear ran down his cheeks yet he made no sound.

‘Simon,’ wheedled the landlord, voice honeying, his snarl sweetening to a smile. ‘Don’t you remember what you told me, when we first met? How she controlled you, smothered you, treated you like a little boy? It was I who freed you, helped you, showed you how to become the man you longed to be. Don’t give it all up now. Or would you rather run back home to Mummy?’

Simon’s lips were trying to form words. Struggling, fighting, twisting in pain. It was like he was a baby again, screaming unintelligibly, and Carol was clutching him to her chest, having tried everything – burping, feeding, nappy changing, singing, walking, sitting, standing still – nothing stopped the endless bawling. She was at her wit’s end trying to understand this unfathomable creature, this helpless ball of needs.

Then suddenly, it came to her.

She willed Simon to read her thoughts. Because she could not show her intentions; not even for a second.

‘Simon,’ said the landlord, voice sharpening to command. ‘Let go.’

‘OK,’ said Simon, dropping the poker and kicking backwards, right in the place a man is always vulnerable.

The landlord made a small squeak, crumbling over himself, which was all Carol needed. She grabbed the poker and clobbered the landlord over the head, again and again. Eventually he fell down, black blood leaking from the back of his skull. But he was still alive. Still watching them.

Carol and Simon grabbed the landlord by the arms. He wailed and begged and threatened them, cursing them with a rasping throat as they tossed him into the fireplace. They watched in silence as the fire ate him, the room slowly filling with the scent of roasting meat, his bright blue eyes glaring with a blistering hatred.

They were the last thing to go.

#

Carol sat down on the sofa in front of the newly installed fireplace, deep in thought. Simon sat beside her.

‘We shouldn’t have done it,’ he said, for the hundredth time.

Carol’s head snapped back. The colour was returning to her son’s sallow skin, his hair cut shorter and styled with wax. A blue T-shirt replaced the dirty, baggy hoodie.

‘We had to,’ she told him. ‘We had no choice.’

Carol’s gaze returned to the fire again. Real fireplaces were all the rage these days, nostalgia for times before central heating. People had forgotten the bite of real cold.

She shivered again, shuffled forwards on the sofa cushion.

‘I mean, it’s not like we can do anything with it, is it?’ said Simon, waving his hands about. He tended to do that now they weren’t eternally shoved into a hoodie pocket. ‘We should have left it there.’

They both glanced involuntarily over at the painting, too large and out of place for the rest of the decor. The aristocrat stared back haughtily, seemingly oblivious to what lay behind it, in a safe stuffed full to bursting.

Pieced together retrospectively, the reasons why she’d taken the money seemed sound enough. Simon needed a helping hand in life, some startup capital, his foot on the first rung of the housing ladder. It was in his long-term interests. She was doing the right thing.

Deep in the grate, the fire cracked its teeth with ravenous hunger, slurping up all her thoughts. Simon’s voice grew dreadfully distant, his arguments lost.

‘We’ll discuss this tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘I’m too tired now.’

Simon patted her shoulder, then left her alone with the fire. She stared into it intently.

The bright blue eyes stared right back.