“You ready for this?” Catherine asked. “The driveway is the axe handle. The house is the axe blade.”

Now the term made sense.

“Spooky, but once again convincing me that you’ll always be my Trivial Pursuit partner.” Jack stopped the car at the end of the driveway and stared at the rundown place—it was the perfect image for a poster advertising a scary movie or book. “What a mess. A neglected house. Just as well it’s tucked down the back, as it offers no street appeal. Neighbours would be happy.”

“Sadly, yes, but it could be brought back to life and it’s private. No visitors. No Mormons.”

“Only brave ones.” Jack said opening his car door. “The man will be well gone, Cath, but have your firearm ready just in case.”

“Will do, Jack.” Catherine was on her phone. “Just requesting a search to see if any car is registered to this address.”

Jack and Catherine climbed out of the car.

The foot patrol officer had done a thorough search of the property. He believed no one was home and advised them that the side door was unlocked. He also told them that the neighbour was probably right about the attack happening here—he’d found a pool of blood in the backyard. 

The officer joined Jack and Catherine as they walked down the side of the house. Jack could hear a dog barking somewhere in the neighbourhood. All the windows had their curtains drawn. The yard was a jungle and needed one of those backyard transformation reality shows to do their magic. Jack was sure that was the last thing on the owner’s mind . . . although magic may have been appealing.

They circled the house. Jack looked at Catherine and the constable. “Let’s proceed with caution.” They went back to the side entrance.

Jack knocked on the door and announced their presence. He raised his hand to pause the others, “Let’s give it some time.”

He looked around the yard again and the stillness, the vast silence surrounding the house brought on a feeling of uneasiness. After twenty seconds he knocked again. Still silence. He waited a few more seconds then pushed the door open.

“Police. Anyone in the house please present yourself.”

His voice echoed through the house and then the silence returned.

Jack turned to the constable. “Might get you to stay out here and guard our rear.”

The constable gave a nod.

Jack and Catherine entered the house through the open side door. They entered a bare laundry with daylight exposing an old concrete tub and no washing machine. Then into a passageway. Jack looked for the light switch and located a traditional round light switch. He flicked the light switch. It gave off a dim light. Down the left were rooms that looked like bedrooms, with the living areas to the right.

“Hello. Anybody home?” Jack shouted.

Deathly silence.

The house was dark and damp and had the smell of approaching rain. The storm though had already arrived and swept away the furnishings and clutter. They entered the living area and flicked the light switch. A sparsely furnished room: two sofas and a television. A few framed prints of the countryside on the walls, along with a few native artefact masks—Jack felt the eyes on the masks moving with them, watching. A large family portrait also hung on the wall. 

Catherine stood looking at the portrait. “There’s something sad about this picture, Jack.”

Jack came closer and looked at it. “It’s just old and faded, Cath. People didn’t seem to smile in those days. Teeth weren’t the assets they are now.”

Catherine gave a small smirk. “Think it was more of trying to give the impression they were upper class, serious people—people of good character.” 

“I somehow doubt the ‘good character’ bit and I’d say if the taller boy in the photo is the man we’re after, then the photo was taken at one of those vintage photo places thirty or forty years ago. They look like gangsters, even the tall boy. All they’re missing is the machine guns.”

“Funny. Do they tell you not to smile at the vintage photo place? Even now. Sad.”

“Yep, but I tell you, those masks freak me out.”

Catherine looked at them and shuddered. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve heard stories of spirits being attached to artefacts. It’s not the artefact that’s the problem. It’s what’s attached to it, what’s inside it, what the owner believes.”

Jack stared at Catherine. “I’m starting to see a different side to you, Cath. There’s a spiritual dimension to you that I’ve not noticed before.”

“Is that bad?”

Jack pondered. “No, it’s good. But I’m getting overwhelmed with it all.”

“Put it this way, Jack. You’d never see a Buddha statue or any masks or idols in my place.”

Jack nodded. “Yes . . . overwhelming.”

They headed towards the kitchen.

“Smells like fish.” Jack said.

“Tuna, I would say. I guess he had a feed of tinned tuna.”

“Think you’re right. I hate the smell of tinned tuna. Think it’s a childhood thing.”

Jack had been in messy houses before. Addicts weren’t known for their tidiness. But this house wasn’t messy. It was dusty and smelly, as though it was hardly lived in. Jack walked past the kitchen sink. Two empty cans of tuna and a half-empty orange juice bottle lay imprisoned in the sink.

Jack gave Catherine a nod towards the sink.

She looked in and smiled then shuddered.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Do you feel it?” Catherine asked, rubbing her arms.

He did feel something but couldn’t put it into words.

“It’s evil, Jack.”

Jack agreed. He felt the evil hidden in the dark pockets of the house, the same feeling he got when walking through dark nightclubs. The feeling something lay hidden in the shadows. He wanted to flood the house with sunshine, to chase away the shadows. Chase away the evil.

They walked back into the living room and looked down the long, dimly lit passageway. Jack turned on his flashlight. Another mask hung on the wall. He shook off the dread wanting to attack him.

“We better check those other rooms,” Jack said.

Catherine regained her composure and found another passageway light switch. It didn’t work. She opened the door to the first bedroom and flicked the light switch—a single bed with a crumbled bed cover, no sheets, and two uncovered sweat-stained pillows. The bed had been slept in recently. The second bedroom had a bare mattress with two old yellowing pillows at the head. The third bedroom was the largest, with a bare king-size bed. A thick rug lay at the end of the bed, partially rolled back. They looked closer, lifted the rug to find an unlocked trapdoor. Jack lifted the trapdoor.

“Looks like he didn’t take everything.” Jack shone his flashlight into the underfloor vault. A strange smell made him cough. It was a gun powdery, damp timber smell. He scanned the vault and saw hand weapons, and what looked like bows. There were traces of a white substance on the surface—leaked from bags of drugs, Jack was sure.

Jack lifted his head from the dark vault and looked around the room. Only a bare bedroom cabinet and dresser with a statue of what looked like a falcon resting on it; the falcon had an Egyptian feel about it. The dread returned, and Jack shook it away again.

They’ll get the forensics to go over this place. And maybe a Catholic priest.