The Dark Song: A Fenwick Short Story

By Piia Bredenberg

A house with a secret...

India is a singer-songwriter in trouble.

She lost her inspiration and, apparently, her mind. After quitting her job writing songs for others in the pop-factory and leaving her tiny apartment in the bustling city, she spent her life savings on an old house in a remote village by the seaside.

As she moves into her huge run down victorian, the old Bakery House, with its dusty charm and wild roses, she doesn’t have to search for inspiration any longer. Like magic, it finds her.

But she is warned off by superstitious townsfolk who treat her like a dead woman walking. Rumour has it no one survives the Bakery House. The dark fairies, creatures of strange magic who have claimed the house, will not take mortal trespass lightly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piia Bredenberg
• Release date: Sep 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781502267740

Book preview

A heartfelt Thank You to Ruth Ellen Parlour for editing my story, giving valuable feedback, and fixing my wonky English.

Prologue

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There are Things in my house.

I don’t know what they are, but they’re small and they’re fast. So fast, their movement is the only thing visible about them. Every time I try to take a look at them, they disappear. I’m only able to see them if I look from the corner of my eye.

I guess this is what they meant with strange looks and long pauses. The agency lady had a peculiar expression when I signed the contract without hesitation, like it showed that I’m an outsider. The sellers, the estate of some unfortunate artist who died before his time, weren’t local either, so I didn’t mind.

I’m looking at the old wicker-hamper right now. It sits in the shadows of the laundry room, and I’m standing in the hallway, looking in through the open door to see if the lid will shift. If there would be a rustle or a scuffing sound it would convince me they’re really there, that I’m not imagining things.

But it’s quiet. Nothing moves. I decide to turn around, and then look again quickly to see that flash of movement again, like a dark piece of muslin blowing in the wind, a tattered curtain or an old torn dress fluttering in the draft. But there’s nothing.

They’re not going to show themselves again tonight. Not without music.

Chapter 1: Dog Rose

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The first time the house came alive around me I was sat in the living room with my guitar and a cup of coffee. It was 06.00 AM.

My first night in my new home had been peaceful and the heavy sea air had lulled me to sleep much too early. I’m a night-owl, normally burning the midnight oil while decent people slept, but this time I found it impossible to keep my heavy eyelids open for even a minute longer. I climbed into bed and fell into a deep sleep to the sound of cicadas in the long grass at the embarrassing hour of nine o’clock at night. So when I woke up the next morning, the day when it all happened, it was unreasonably early for me and yet I felt rested and energetic.

To make the most of the long day I had ahead of me, I made coffee and, still in my pajamas and bunny slippers (because I had to draw the line at getting dressed), grabbed a notepad and a pen to mark down the notes I might come up with.

I sauntered towards the living room while sipping coffee, proud of my early-morning multitasking, and stopped at the narrow doorway to take in the view. It had this effect on me I couldn’t explain.

The living room was a wonderful space, all creaky wooden plank-floors, worn shiny and smooth by decades of foot-traffic; and water stained sea-foam coloured walls ending in a high white ceiling complete with crumbling plaster. The by-gone era charm was the reason I fell in love with the place to begin with. There was even a dusty chandelier in excellent condition. Although turning the lights on had been somewhat exciting, considering the wiring looked pre-historic and possibly dangerous.

The early 20th century French doors that gave to the backyard had thick glass as ancient as the frames with their peeling paint and rusted hinges, and everything through them was wavy. Like looking through water. Everything undulated: the seagulls and the trees, the wild dog rose bush with huge pink blossoms that had grabbed a hold on to the window-pane like it was trying to pry it open with its thorny fingers.

I hadn’t been this inspired for a year, not since they tore the club down, and I sat down on the slowly decomposing tapestry-covered