The Tenant From Hell by Ruairi MacInnes

The smell of new leather filled the interior of the Porsche. A Sting solo album played on the car stereo. They drove into a graffitied neighborhood. Young people clustered on the street corners. Jodie said,

‘‘That bloke’s a tenant from hell.’‘

Pete nodded to show sympathy.

‘‘Pete, the other tenants have told me about him. He never goes out. He switches on the central heating too often. He spends all his time with his nose in grubby, old books. He draws weird pictures and tapes them to the wall. And he mumbles and sings to himself day and night. No one even knows what the freakin‘ language is.’‘

‘‘But the geezer’s never been late with a rent payment. Not once. Ever.’‘

Jodie parked the car. They got out. Jodie said,

‘‘I used to think this place would be our ticket to a better life.’‘

Pete nodded. She said.

‘‘But it means I have three jobs now. One at the estate agents. One working as a caretaker for this place. Plus I’m a freakin’ social worker for our tenants.’‘

‘‘Jodie, let’s look forwards. This will be the foundation of our property empire.’‘

Jodie snorted in derision. She locked the car. They crossed the overgrown front garden. Pete pushed open the front door that lacked a working lock. They entered the murk within.

Jodie knocked on the door of Aamon Cawley‘s room. She waited, knocked again. No one muttered behind the door.

‘‘Pete, come up here a minute.’‘

Her boyfriend was on the floor below. He emerged from an empty room that the occupier had recently vacated. Pete held up a glossy magazine. He rubbed his crotch and said, ‘‘A bit of bedtime reading?’‘

Jodie glanced at the magazine cover. She saw unclothed figures. She knew Pete could be foolish. But he was decisive with difficult renters.

‘‘Act your age and come and help me. The oddball’s gone all quiet today.’‘

Pete strode up the creaking stairs. He selected a key from a bunch chained to his belt. He unlocked the door.

‘‘Whewwwww!’‘ said Jodie, ‘‘It needs fresh air in here.’‘

They both crept in. Mousetraps lay scattered around the floor. The wallpaper was almost invisible behind the grotesque drawings taped to the walls. There were images of bleeding faces pierced by knives and torn by pincers. Some pictures showed bodies on fire. In others, animals were chewing cadavers. A couple of sketches portrayed corpses clambering from their graves. On a lot of the artwork there were rows of symbols that Jodie and Pete could not decipher. Pete said,

‘‘Takes all sorts, eh Jodie?’‘

‘‘He’s not right in the head.’‘

‘‘Just a moment love, I‘ll have to take this.’‘

Pete pressed the keypad on his mobile phone.

‘‘Yeah, Pete speaking…who?…oh, Aamon Cawley? Uh huh, that’s correct, he’s my tenant…Oh no, that’s terrible…sorry to hear that…yeah, well thanks for letting me know…em…I’ll have to think about that…I‘ll call you back shortly.’‘

Jodie glowered.

‘‘What’s happened now?’‘

‘‘The geezer’s been admitted to hospital. Gone into a coma. Suspected meningitis.’‘

‘‘What‘s that got to do with us?’‘

‘‘He put us down as his contact for emergencies. Probably hasn‘t got any friends or relatives.’‘

‘‘So what did the hospital want?’‘

‘‘They don‘t know how long he’ll be in the coma. His medical insurance has run out. They want to know if we’ll cover his hospital bills.’‘

Jodie scowled.

‘‘Of course we can‘t do that. We’re running a business here. We‘re not a freakin’ charity.’‘

‘‘But they said if we can‘t pay it they‘ll switch off his life support.’‘

Jodie frowned. She said,

‘‘Okay. Tell them to pull the plug.’‘

‘‘But that means Aamon‘s going to die.’‘

‘‘He‘s as good as dead anyway. And he never really had a life.’‘

Pete scowled. Jodie smiled.

‘‘C‘mon Pete. You know I like it when you’re decisive.’‘

Pete called a number on his phone.

‘‘Hi. It’s Peter Foster calling again about Aamon Cawley. Sadly, we can‘t cover any bills…Yeah, of course, I understand the consequences…I‘m afraid that’s the only option…Of course it‘s very sad…Awful I know…Yes, I’m listening…That shouldn’t be a problem…When would you need to do that…I’m sure it’s not necessary. The house is spotless. And certified by the council…We‘ll co-operate fully…Okay. Bye.’‘

Jodie looked tense.

‘‘Were they wanting something?’‘

‘‘They want to send a health inspector round. They said rat urine caused his meningitis. We’ll have to get the cleaners in. There could be problems for us with the council.’‘

They both surveyed Aamon’s room. One trap contained the remains of a grey-haired rat. The tenants had complained about the rodent infestation. It had spread from the kitchen to the bedrooms. Their musings were suddenly interrupted.

‘‘Aaaaaaaaaargh!’‘ Jodie screamed. A scratching sound raced around the room.

‘‘Relax Jodie. It’s just a rat inside the wall. We’ll send the cleaners up here first.’‘

Jodie had retreated to the doorway.

‘‘Pete, why not grab that old book in the corner? Looks like it could be valuable. We might get ourselves a quid or two.’‘

Jodie started up the engine of the Porsche. Pete studied the book. It was bound in soft, pale leather. He said,

‘‘This is weird. Aamon wrote a warning on the first page.”

This is Mr Cawley’s book.

If you steal from me

When the night arrives

Fiends will visit thee.

Jodie snorted.

‘‘Load of guff. That guy was just a fruitcake. I’m glad we won‘t have to deal with him again.’‘

Pete muttered ‘‘Poor old bloke.’‘ Jodie ignored him. The car drove off in a splurge of exhaust fumes. The two empty windows of Aamon Cawley‘s top floor room gazed down like mournful eyes on the departing vehicle.

A week later, Jodie was making a salad in their gleaming kitchen. Pete sat thinking in the living room. He ignored the episode of Celebrity Master Chef that chattered on the TV. The antique book lay open near him on the sofa. It contained pictures similar to the drawings in Aamon Cawley’s room. But these pictures were printed and looked as if real artists had painted them. Pete thought this made the tortures inflicted on the half-draped humans more disturbing. The pages of text were in an old-looking language he couldn’t understand. On one page someone had penciled two words in English. These were ‘‘revenant’‘ and ‘‘transmigration.’‘ Pete had no idea what they meant. He didn’t look them up online. He was more concerned with stories of old books being worth millions. Jodie’s shouted to him from the kitchen.

‘‘I hope you’‘re not still wasting time with that scuzzy book?’‘

‘‘No. I’m watching the TV.’‘

‘‘Well, take the book to a second-hand shop. Then forget about it.’‘

‘‘I want a decent price though.’‘

‘‘Get rid of it tomorrow. I don’t want reminders of Aamon Cawley lying around the place. Phone the hospital to check he snuffed it. Then we’ll advertise. Empty rooms don’t pay rent.’‘

Pete snapped shut the ancient volume. He took it to the airing cupboard, under the stairs in the hall. He hid the book under some towels. Jodie appeared in the living room.

‘‘Pete, why’s there mud on the new carpet?’‘

Pete sighed and went to get a brush and pan. He was as perplexed as Jodie. Where did the mud come from? They’d both left their shoes on the front door mat.

That night in the darkened bedroom they lay in bed. Jodie said,

‘‘Babe. Please sell that book. It‘s starting to creep me out. I had a nightmare. There was some kind of detective after us.’‘

‘‘Don’t be daft. It’s just a book.’‘

He put his arms around her. She moved closer to him. Outside the bedroom something rustled. Jodie said,

‘‘What’s that? It sounds like a freakin’ mouse.’‘

‘‘In a house this modern? Nowhere for them to hide here, love. I‘ll call the exterminator first thing.’‘

‘‘What I want is for you to kill that mouse right now.’‘

Pete sighed. He pulled on his striped pajama trousers. He got out of bed. He switched on the bedroom light. They both heard a scraping sound in the hall. The airing cupboard creaked open.

‘‘Sort it out Pete. I won’t sleep with an oversized pest prowling about.’‘

‘‘Calm down. It’ll scarper when it hears me.’‘

He knew it was not a rodent. Someone had come to reclaim the antique book. Aamon Cawley had friends after all. Pete saw his dream of easy money disappearing. Adrenalin made him alert. He crept out into the shadowed hallway. This was his home and he would defend it.

‘‘Pete, I can’t hear what you’re doing. What’s happening, babe?’‘

Jodie stared. Wide-eyed. Something big was crawling on all fours into the bedroom. The thing dragged itself across the carpet. It was a man formed of rats. It was covered in writhing fur, quivering snouts, beady eyes, flexing claws and whipping tails. The creature fumbled at its head with globes of squirming rodents that were where its hands should have been. It grunted. It whimpered. Jodie blacked out.

When she awoke she sensed the rats had gone. There was no rustling sound. No mammalian odor. Through her closed eyelids she made out the light of morning. She said,

‘‘Pete?’‘

Silence answered.

‘‘Pete, babe…Please tell me you’re okay!’‘

She opened her eyes enough to form a narrow field of vision. She scanned the room. An object lay in the shag pile carpet. It was a pair of striped pyjama trousers. They were almost empty apart from sticks or something angular inside them. Dark stains blotted the fabric. Protruding from the trousers was something she wanted to believe was pieces of porcelain. But she knew it was a ribcage. Beyond it lay a pale and spherical object. She could not deny it had once been Pete’s head. A rat perched on the flesh-stripped skull. It dipped its snout into one of the eye sockets. Its whiskers trembled. The animal turned to stare at Jodie. It squeaked. The squeaking formed falsetto words. It said,

‘‘Jodie…Help me…What’s happened to me?’‘

Jodie began to scream then stopped herself. She looked at the speaking rodent. She thought of stories of talking animals that were worth millions. She saw talk shows, webcasts, spin-off merchandising.

‘‘Relax, babe. Everything’s going to be just fine.’‘

—

Ruairi MacInnes has previously been published in magazines including Murky Depths, MicroHorror and Eunoia Review.When not working and writing he plays guitar in London-based band Johnny Mode.