The House Next Door

  Praise for Joel A. Sutherland

  “This book is CHILLING. Loved it!”

  — R.L. Stine, author of Goosebumps, on The House Next Door

  “A great premise, a cool twist, and an exciting climax …”

  — Allan Stratton, author of The Dogs, on Summer’s End

  “Canada’s answer to R.L. Stine.”

  Quill & Quire

  Winner of the Silver Birch Award for Non-Fiction for Haunted Canada 5 and Haunted Canada 6

  Winner of the Hackmatack Award for Non-Fiction for Haunted Canada 4 and Haunted Canada 5

  In memory of George Lenart — the most gentle man, who left the most permanent mark

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for Joel A. Sutherland

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Also Available

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Look on the bright side,” Dad said to my sister, Sophie, as he placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on mine. “You always wanted a horse.”

  Sophie sighed. “Just because there’s a horse next door doesn’t make it mine.”

  The horse was in the snowy field beside our new house. Dad, Sophie and I had spent the afternoon unloading the rental truck and unpacking boxes as Mom started putting things away. I’d walked in and out dozens of times, but I hadn’t noticed the horse before. It didn’t make a sound or move a muscle. It stood as still as a statue. I was beginning to wonder if the horse was actually alive, but then its tail swooshed side to side, just once.

  “And even if that horse was mine,” Sophie continued, “I think I’d ask for my money back.”

  I saw her point. The horse was jet black with a white spot on its forehead, but you’d never mistake it for Black Beauty. It was tall and should’ve been muscular, but its ribs were visible beneath its dull and matted coat. And I couldn’t tell for sure in the dim light, but I thought I saw some dark liquid trickling out of one nostril. Three of its ankles were white, while the fourth was as black as the rest of its body. I didn’t know the correct term for horse ankles but I knew Sophie would, so I asked her.

  “Horse ankles?” she laughed. “I think you mean pasterns, the part between the hoof and the fetlock.”

  I didn’t bother asking what a fetlock was. Sophie knew more about horses than anyone I’d ever met, even though she was only ten and she’d never owned a horse or taken lessons. We’d gone riding for a few hours a handful of times, but that was all. She was horse crazy, had been ever since she was old enough to say “neigh.”

  Dad picked a clump of tall, dead grass from under the old fence that separated our new house from the rickety farmhouse next door. He held the grass over the fence and whistled through his teeth, a high, piercing sound that hurt my ears a little.

  “Here, girl,” he called to the horse, trying to entice it over. “Or boy. I don’t actually know what you are. Sophie, can you tell if it’s a girl or a boy?”

  “I can see everything you can see from here,” Sophie said. “No, I can’t tell.”

  The horse continued to stare at us. Swish-swish went its tail. Otherwise it didn’t move.

  “What’s the matter?” Dad called across the field. “Did your mommy teach you not to take grass from a stranger or something?”

  “Richard?” It was Mom. She was standing in the front doorway behind us with a confused look on her face. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Our new neighbour,” Dad said.

  Mom peered at the farmhouse. “New neighbour? Where?”

  “There in the field,” I said, pointing. “Shadowfax.”

  “Nice one, Matt!” Dad said. He ruffled my hair.

  “Who?” Mom said, her frown deepening.

  “Shadowfax,” I said. “You know, Gandalf’s horse.”

  Dad was quick to join in the nerd fest I’d started. His voice rose as his excitement grew. “Descendant of Felaróf and Lord of the Mearas, the greatest horse breed in all of Middle-earth.”

  “Half of what you both just said was English, and the other half was, well, I have no idea.” Mom looked to Sophie for support. “Do you have any clue what they’re talking about?”

  “The Lord of the Rings, I think,” Sophie said. “But other than that, no. Not really, no.”

  At thirteen, I’d read The Lord of the Rings three times and Dad and I had watched all the movies a dozen times. We’d even watched the director’s extended editions with hours of cut scenes added back in.

  We were bona fide geeks and proud of it.

  Mom was an auditor. Or something. I was never really sure what she did. She told me during breakfast one day, but I started thinking about the wallpaper in our kitchen, which was slightly more interesting. We had moved from Bracebridge to Courtice because of her job. She got a new one in Toronto auditing products or processes or numbers or whatever auditors audit. So we had to leave our totally awesome house to come to this bland suburban neighbourhood so she could be closer to the city.

  Dad was an artist, so he could work pretty much anywhere. Although painting or sketching beside the creek that flowed through our old backyard had to be better for his muse than sitting under the baking sun in our new treeless yard, listening to barking dogs and crying babies and whatever radio station the neighbours listened to while mowing their lawns.

  Mom finally spotted the horse. Its black hair was like camouflage against the darkening sky. “Look at that! In all the times we came out here to check on the progress of the house I never once saw a horse. Hey, Sophie, you always wanted a horse and now you live next door to one. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Sophie looked like she was about to tell Mom the same thing she’d told Dad, but then she took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Yeah, Mom. Pretty cool.”

  “You never know,” Mom said. “Maybe once the neighbours discover how much you love horses they’ll let you ride theirs.”

  I looked at the farmhouse but didn’t see any sign of life other than the horse. No movement in the windows, no lights turned on, no car in the driveway. The house looked one hundred years old, easy. Maybe even older. It was as white as the snow that surrounded it. To the right of the door was a small white statue of a horse, and beside that was a porch swing that creaked back and forth slowly in the wind.

  The other thing that caught my eye was a sign at the foot of the driveway. It read BRIAR PATCH FARM and had a silhouette of a horse in mid-run. I couldn’t picture the real horse of Briar Patch Farm running half as fast as the horse on the sign — it was far too sickly looking.

  Around back was a large stable that had seen better days. It used to be red, but most of the paint had peeled off the wooden boards. I didn’t think the roof had much time left before it collapsed.

  The house looked stubborn. Though I guess it wasn’t the house but whoever lived there that wa
s stubborn. The old house sat surrounded on all sides by cookie-cutter homes in our newly built subdivision. All the other farmers who used to live in the area had sold their properties to developers, but not my new neighbours. They’d obviously refused to move, and now the white house, with its large field, stable and horse, stood out like a sore thumb.

  My family and I looked at the house in silence for a moment or two. Cold wind blew snow along the street and froze my skin. It was the first day of March break and instead of spending the week skiing and snowboarding and skating with my friends like I’d done the past few years, I’d be spending it getting settled in my new home. Alone.

  Mom shivered and hugged her arms to her body. “Brrr. It’s cold. Let’s go inside. Pizza’s about ready to come out of the oven.”

  We all forgot about the horse — pizza, even frozen pizza, always had that effect on us — and followed my mother inside. But as we sat in a circle on the family-room floor, eating cardboardy pizza off paper plates that probably tasted about the same, I happened to look out the window. It was pitch-black outside, but I thought I saw two large eyes reflecting the light from the family room. There was a shadowy blur of movement, and then the eyes were gone.

  “What is it, Matt?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head. “Nothing at all.”

  But I had a feeling that wasn’t true.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I woke up the next morning on the floor of my new room and stretched my back. It cracked loudly three times like a firecracker. Pop, pop, pop! Mom’s yoga mat and my old sleeping bag were nowhere near as good as my actual bed. All of our large furniture was being delivered later in the day.

  I got up and walked slowly to the window. Mine was the only room with a view of Briar Patch Farm — Sophie’s window looked out onto the backyard and Mom and Dad’s faced the street. It had snowed overnight and the ground was covered by a blanket of white powder. There was no sign of the horse, not even a single hoofprint. It must’ve still been in the stable.

  I looked at my watch. It was almost 9:30. I thought that was a little strange. I’d always heard farmers get up stupid early. The horse should have been let out of the stable to stretch its legs by now.

  I pulled on my jeans from the day before and my favourite Batman T-shirt (it said WWBD? — What Would Batman Do? — above the logo) and I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Sophie and Mom were sitting on moving boxes packed with books, each holding a cereal bowl in one hand and spooning mouthfuls of Cheerios with the other.

  “Morning, champ,” Dad said. He was standing at the counter, and although our kitchen cupboards and fridge were mostly bare, he was wearing his apron. It was black with yellow writing: COME TO THE DARK SIDE — WE HAVE COOKIES. “I’m afraid I couldn’t make my traditional Sunday morning pancakes, but can I interest you in a bowl of cereal? We have a fine selection of Cheerios, Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes.”

  “Cheerios sounds good,” I said, taking a seat on a third box.

  “Coming right up.”

  “How’d you sleep?” Mom asked.

  “Not too well. I miss my bed.”

  “Me too,” Sophie added.

  “It’ll be better tonight after the movers come,” Mom said.

  “You know,” Dad said, handing me a bowl of cereal and a spoon, “you two kids don’t need to stick around to help us today. I’m going to go grocery shopping and your mom is going to keep unpacking. You could head out and get to know the neighbourhood a little, if you’d like.”

  I shrugged. “If my friends were here I’d go tobogganing.”

  “So take your sister.”

  I turned to Sophie. “You wanna go?”

  “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?” Sophie said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said with a laugh. Our grandpa liked weird expressions, and that one was one of his favourites — Sophie’s too.

  We finished breakfast, dug our winter clothes out of moving boxes (it wasn’t too difficult; Mom had labelled everything), found our toboggans in the garage and were off.

  But we stopped at the end of our driveway. We had no idea where the closest hill was.

  “Um, what do you think? Right or left?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said. Then she pointed across the street and said, “Look!”

  Two boys had walked out of their house. They looked like marshmallows in puffy winter coats and tuques and gloves, just like us. They each grabbed a toboggan from the side of their house, and then one of the boys spotted us.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” the older boy responded. He looked about my age, and the other kid looked to be about Sophie’s age.

  “We just moved in,” I said. “Is it cool if we follow you to the toboggan hill?”

  “Sorry,” the oldest boy said. “We’re not going tobogganing.”

  I frowned. “Oh, um, really? It’s just, you’ve got toboggans and …”

  Sophie slapped my chest with the back of her hand. “They’re messing with you, Matt.”

  I stopped talking and noticed that the boys were both smiling and laughing. “Ah, I get it,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure, you can come with us,” the older boy said. “I’m Nick, and this is my little brother, Chris.”

  We introduced ourselves and followed them. I glanced at the farmhouse beside ours as we passed it. The blinds were drawn tight and there was no one around. The house looked like it was hibernating for the winter.

  “Have you guys lived here long?” I asked.

  “We moved in October. So what’s that? Four months?” Nick said.

  “Five,” Chris corrected.

  “Thanks, baby brother.”

  “You know I don’t like it when you call me that.”

  “Sorry. I’ll never call you brother again, baby.”

  Chris sighed, but he didn’t seem genuinely upset. I had the feeling they teased each other a lot, but it was all in good humour.

  “How far is the hill?” Sophie asked.

  “It’s behind Courtice Public School, just up ahead — is that your new school?” Chris asked Sophie.

  She nodded. I’d be going to a junior high school that was attached to the secondary school across town. But neither of us was thrilled about changing schools with only three months left in the school year.

  “I go there too,” Chris continued. “Anyway, there’s a forest behind the school, with a path that leads to a hill. It’s not huge, but there are never any little kids or parents there, so it’s cool.”

  Just like Chris had said, we cut through the school’s playground, entered a small path between some pine trees and walked a short distance through the woods until we reached a small clearing with a hill.

  “This. Is. Awesome,” Sophie said.

  “Wicked!” I said. I hadn’t expected to find anything like it in the suburbs. It had only taken us seven or eight minutes to walk there, but it felt like we were back in Bracebridge, back in the country. The forest cut off all sights and sounds from the neighbourhood, and the hill wasn’t as small as I’d imagined. We had the hill to ourselves and the snow was completely undisturbed — no one had tobogganed yet.

  “Last one down is a rotten egg!” Sophie shouted. She flopped down on her toboggan and sped down the hill alone.

  “Who’s it gonna be?” I called and tried to catch my sister.

  Chris joined me and Sophie at the bottom of the hill and Nick, the rotten egg himself, came in last.

  “You guys are weird,” Nick said with a smile.

  “Thank you,” Sophie replied.

  “You’ll fit right in in this neighbourhood,” Chris said.

  “Too soon,” Nick said. “It’s their first day.”

  Chris stood up. “Don’t you think it’s better they know sooner rather than later?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Well, the cat’s out of the
bag now,” Nick said. “You might as well tell them.”

  Chris opened his mouth, paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately as if weighing each word. “Did you notice anything odd about the house next to yours?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There was a horse in the field last night, but it was barely moving. I think I saw it staring at us through the window last night. It was kind of creepy.”

  “Creepy. That horse is way more than creepy,” Chris said.

  “Why?”

  “Because there is no horse,” Chris said. “Well, that’s not exactly right. There used to be a horse there.”

  “Used to be?” Sophie asked.

  “Fifteen or twenty years ago,” Nick said. “Real tall and black as night.”

  “What happened to it?” I asked. “Did the owners move or something?”

  “No,” Chris said. “It died.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sophie took a sip of hot chocolate and, with a chocolate moustache coating her upper lip, declared, “Needs more marshmallows.”

  We were sitting in Nick and Chris’s kitchen, slowly warming up. My cheeks throbbed and my fingers and toes tingled. We’d taken our toboggans down the hill only a few more times before heading back.

  “Help yourself,” Nick said, sliding a yellow bag of No Name marshmallows across the table to my sister.

  Sophie drank half of her hot chocolate to free up some space in the mug, then dumped nearly a dozen marshmallows in. Mr. and Mrs. Russo, Nick and Chris’s parents, were out, so there weren’t any grown-ups around to tell us not to eat too much junk.

  “So how do you guys know the horse died years ago if you’ve only been here five months?” I asked.

  “All the kids talk about it at school,” Chris said. “Most think it’s just an old, nearly-dead horse, but some people think it’s a ghost. I even heard one kid say it was a zombie because there’s no such thing as ghost horses. It’s like a local legend.”

  “How did the horse die?” Sophie asked. “According to the legend.”

  “I’ve heard a few different stories,” Nick said. “Some people say the horse died in a fire, which can’t be true because the stable is still there and it looks pretty old. Others say the family that lives in the house went bankrupt and chopped the horse up into bits and sold it for glue.”