Anyway, I'm taking a deep breath. This is the other option that HB suggested opening with:
Deep night: The house was huge; silent. Kate watched the moon climbing up over the rotten silver birch that towered next to the open bedroom window. It had been over an hour since she'd woken. The room was airless even though all the windows were open; the balmy summer evenings evolved into clammy ones and made her want to shower three times a night. She probably would if it didn’t take so long for her hair to dry; one of the curses of afro hair.
[Considering slicing this paragraph altogether, or spreading it later:] She wondered how Neil was getting on in London and wished she'd gone with him this time; at least the Strand Plaza was air conditioned. She could have spent the day in Chelsea in the gallery and homeware shops. Last trip, she'd seen a huge Byzantine fresco relief she could just imagine on the back wall of the red room, and there were always lots of polished fossils in those kind of shops. Her orthoceras and ammonites were getting tiresome and she wondered if getting an actual skeleton was a bit over the top for the morning room. Just something small. She was determined to put her own style on the house; for too long it'd been an eclectic mix of dour English pomp and fussy clutter. If Neil would just trust her, she'd be on the third floor now in a cool bedroom under the west apex. If…]
Something shifted under the bed and although she'd not been moving, she tensed and held her breath, listening intently. Nothing. The moment she relaxed, it shifted again, and she felt it more than heard it. The bed had no legs - sitting squarely on the floor - so it couldn't be coming from underneath. Something about the noise made her think of ropey old galleons with their spider web of rigging. There was a similar squeaking and twisting characteristic to it.
Propping herself up on an elbow she flicked on the delicate regency headboard lamp and cocked her head. No sound, no sensation, and nothing to be seen in the large bedroom. Maybe the en suite? The door to the bathroom was closed so with a bravado huff she swung her legs out of bed and got up to check.
After two steps the floor vibrated and squeaked again - sinking or bending - and in a panic that would have been funny during daytime, she ran to the side of the bedroom and clung to the wall like a mouse. Whatever was vibrating was downstairs. She switched on the wall light and grabbed her bathrobe from the back of the door. It was too hot but she didn't fancy going to investigate with just a silk cerise night shift.
A silver-blue light with black diamond crisscross shadows from the leaded windows painted the landing. The brocade upholstery on the two seats under the window sparkled magically. Now she was out of the bedroom, in the gloaming of the heart of the house, an air of vulnerability settled over her; the abyssal pool of the staircase was a hungry mouth. She ignored the hairs that had crept to attention on her damp arms and crossed the landing. Off to the left, a narrow flight continued up to the top floor and the single, self-contained spare room. A cool breeze flowed down from it and chilled the back of her neck.
She walked into the inky depths, hurrying down the stairs with a flourish, and slapped on the lights. The sprawling gardens beyond the french windows of the cavernous reception hall burst into bright colour. Wrong switch. Mumbling a curse she switched them off, the afterimage staining her night vision. Purple fronds and lava-lamp blobs floated over her eyes. One of the purple blobs looked like a man hanging from his feet. She felt for the other switch and the reception room was flooded with a warm light, the eight french windows becoming black mirrors.
Now the place was lit it seemed unlikely she'd hear the twisting wood. Something about seeing the house and all the furnishings in light added an extra level of interference, and she considered the possibility that she'd imagined everything. May as well have a look, though. The sliding door to the dining room trundled noisily along its runners when she pushed it, and she stepped into the darkness of the east wing, under her bedroom.
That bloody cat!
She jumped back into the reassuring light of the reception hallway impulsively; Basquiat wasn't normally guilty of pissing in the house and she stood on her heels hoping the cat piss she'd stood in wouldn't get on the carpet.
Her feet were scarlet. Blood.
The creaking from the dining room started again. Run upstairs? Get a knife? Neil kept his air rifle way down in the west wing garage… She should just bash the lights on and ... And what? Let the whatever know she was there?
She crept back to the dining room door. If anyone's in there, they would've heard me scream when I stood in the…
The room opened out to the left and when she peeked around, she bit her hand to stop from screaming. A lake of blood, mercurial in the moonlight, spread across the wooden floor, dripping in long syrupy gloops from the modern glass dining table. Hanging upside down from the central wooden beam was a man's naked body. Surely the diminishing freshet of blood escaping from his neck couldn’t be responsible for all that red!
(Squeak)
The body turned slowly. Missing its skin.
[Considering slicing this paragraph altogether, or spreading it later:] She wondered how Neil was getting on in London and wished she'd gone with him this time; at least the Strand Plaza was air conditioned. She could have spent the day in Chelsea in the gallery and homeware shops. Last trip, she'd seen a huge Byzantine fresco relief she could just imagine on the back wall of the red room, and there were always lots of polished fossils in those kind of shops. Her orthoceras and ammonites were getting tiresome and she wondered if getting an actual skeleton was a bit over the top for the morning room. Just something small. She was determined to put her own style on the house; for too long it'd been an eclectic mix of dour English pomp and fussy clutter. If Neil would just trust her, she'd be on the third floor now in a cool bedroom under the west apex. If…]
Something shifted under the bed and although she'd not been moving, she tensed and held her breath, listening intently. Nothing. The moment she relaxed, it shifted again, and she felt it more than heard it. The bed had no legs - sitting squarely on the floor - so it couldn't be coming from underneath. Something about the noise made her think of ropey old galleons with their spider web of rigging. There was a similar squeaking and twisting characteristic to it.
Propping herself up on an elbow she flicked on the delicate regency headboard lamp and cocked her head. No sound, no sensation, and nothing to be seen in the large bedroom. Maybe the en suite? The door to the bathroom was closed so with a bravado huff she swung her legs out of bed and got up to check.
After two steps the floor vibrated and squeaked again - sinking or bending - and in a panic that would have been funny during daytime, she ran to the side of the bedroom and clung to the wall like a mouse. Whatever was vibrating was downstairs. She switched on the wall light and grabbed her bathrobe from the back of the door. It was too hot but she didn't fancy going to investigate with just a silk cerise night shift.
A silver-blue light with black diamond crisscross shadows from the leaded windows painted the landing. The brocade upholstery on the two seats under the window sparkled magically. Now she was out of the bedroom, in the gloaming of the heart of the house, an air of vulnerability settled over her; the abyssal pool of the staircase was a hungry mouth. She ignored the hairs that had crept to attention on her damp arms and crossed the landing. Off to the left, a narrow flight continued up to the top floor and the single, self-contained spare room. A cool breeze flowed down from it and chilled the back of her neck.
She walked into the inky depths, hurrying down the stairs with a flourish, and slapped on the lights. The sprawling gardens beyond the french windows of the cavernous reception hall burst into bright colour. Wrong switch. Mumbling a curse she switched them off, the afterimage staining her night vision. Purple fronds and lava-lamp blobs floated over her eyes. One of the purple blobs looked like a man hanging from his feet. She felt for the other switch and the reception room was flooded with a warm light, the eight french windows becoming black mirrors.
Now the place was lit it seemed unlikely she'd hear the twisting wood. Something about seeing the house and all the furnishings in light added an extra level of interference, and she considered the possibility that she'd imagined everything. May as well have a look, though. The sliding door to the dining room trundled noisily along its runners when she pushed it, and she stepped into the darkness of the east wing, under her bedroom.
That bloody cat!
She jumped back into the reassuring light of the reception hallway impulsively; Basquiat wasn't normally guilty of pissing in the house and she stood on her heels hoping the cat piss she'd stood in wouldn't get on the carpet.
Her feet were scarlet. Blood.
The creaking from the dining room started again. Run upstairs? Get a knife? Neil kept his air rifle way down in the west wing garage… She should just bash the lights on and ... And what? Let the whatever know she was there?
She crept back to the dining room door. If anyone's in there, they would've heard me scream when I stood in the…
The room opened out to the left and when she peeked around, she bit her hand to stop from screaming. A lake of blood, mercurial in the moonlight, spread across the wooden floor, dripping in long syrupy gloops from the modern glass dining table. Hanging upside down from the central wooden beam was a man's naked body. Surely the diminishing freshet of blood escaping from his neck couldn’t be responsible for all that red!
(Squeak)
The body turned slowly. Missing its skin.
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