Number 13. The embrace of decay. The much anticipated collection of Dr Franz Bauer

She stared at the many photographs of blackthorns. A cluster of people wandered past and gathered at the next easel, but her feet refused to budge from ‘Number 13’. Her gaze followed the lit corridor of shadows to the far end of the room, unfalteringly, to the staircase at the end.
The sensation of falling; a closing in. It was as if the plaster flakes had caught in her throat. She covered her mouth with her scarf, afraid of gagging. Impossible.
‘You like it?’ Someone approached. A student maybe. He glanced sideways at her. ‘Not many stop by this one.’
‘If it’s not too rude to ask,’ she started as calmly as she could. ‘Where did you take it?’
‘Not me. Father’s tastes were a little unconventional. This was his only interior.’
‘Was?’
‘He died last year. Suddenly. Nasty fall. I don’t suppose you heard.’
She knew of course.
‘I never saw him at the end…’ He peered more closely at the image. ‘There’s something uncanny about it, isn’t there? Like the inhabitants were bussed away and … ’
‘And?’
‘Never came back.’
She could feel his gaze ricochet between her and the photograph. A curiosity perhaps?
‘Are you familiar with his work?’
‘A little,’ she lied, staring at the picture.
The crumbling walls. The gaping ceilings. The cries!
Her breathing quickened at the sight of the trees. Fate had brought her here.
‘You’ve gone rather pale.’ He nodded towards the exit. ‘There’s a cafe through there. Looks like you could do with a warm drink.’
She swayed. ‘It is impossible that the room has been photographed like this. You see, I know the room well.’ She hesitated. ‘But the blackthorns outside the window. The snow…’ It seemed like only yesterday that they had been saplings; the last time she had seen him.

***

She was grateful to feel the warmth of the tea tingle inside her, but she couldn’t get the image from her mind.
‘Are you quite well?’ His upper lip stuck on his top teeth.
‘I expect you will think I am rather mad,’ she said.
‘And are you?’ He leaned forward, waiting for her words. ‘And where is this room you speak of?’
She swallowed the tea quickly. She really should be going, although she had to admit he was rather attractive. So like his father. That long chin.
Not many people show an interest in my father’s work.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m not doing anything tonight. Why don’t we have another drink then you can show me the room? If it’s not far away…’
‘As the crow flies, it’s only a short walk.’ she said, smiling.

***

The moon shone up the pathway to the house. A large plaque with Number 13 was affixed to the brickwork. She held on to his arm to steady herself as they walked through the snow.
‘Oh dear, the blackthorns – they’re out of control. Look how all the windows swing.’
‘But I see no blackthorns,’ he said, looking round. ‘Only garages. The windows are secure. It all looks perfectly normal.’
She opened the front door. Inside, the hall was lit, welcoming, although upstairs was in darkness.
‘Do go up. I’ll follow you in a moment, she said, as cheerfully as she could manage. ‘Watch out for the loose steps. The missing ones.’
He climbed tentatively. ‘But there are no missing steps.’ He’d already reached the landing.
‘You’ll need a torch.’ She reached into the cupboard, but as she drew out the torch, the rafters creaked and splintered and the walls started to cave in.
‘Don’t worry I’ve found the switch,’ he called.
Footsteps overhead. The embrace of decay. Rafters creaked and splintered. Walls and ceilings started to cave in.
Quickly, she backed out of the hallway and ran down the pathway, relieved to hear the door slam behind. At the gate she turned back. She kept her distance from the blackthorns. They moved in; dragging themselves over the snow.
The upstairs windows swung back and forth, hinges creaking. She heard the cries as he fell through the ceiling. It all looked so much smaller from here. She ran through the snow past the thorns…into the blackness.

Maria Sanger is a PhD researcher in Creative Writing at Anglia Ruskin University, Cambridge. A selection of short extracts have been published in Vanessa Gebbie’s Fifty-One and a Half Exercises: Games and Ideas for Writers (Ad Hoc Fiction).