I cut a casual figure as I approach the house on foot. I cast my mind back, trying to recall when I was last here. It must have been some thirty years ago, when curiosity got the better of me. But before I even reached the driveway that day, each young face from my chequered childhood appeared behind the weather-stained windows like they had all been waiting for my return. Unprepared for such a confrontation, I beat a hasty retreat.
Today, that apprehensiveness returns. My pace slows as I watch a truck driver with a cigarette dangling from his mouth attach netting to the top of a skip crammed full of old bricks, plasterboard and a familiar bathroom suite. Next to it is an empty skip, ready to be filled with more remnants of the home I once knew. I imagine there will be very few of the original fixtures left by the time their work is complete.
A car pulls up ahead and I stop in my tracks, anxious not to be seen. I hide behind trees on the opposite side of the road. As the new owners wait for the truck to reverse from the driveway, they crane their necks upwards and stare at the roof. My eyes follow the direction their heads move in.
This place was pristine back in my day, a far cry from how it appears now. While Dad kept up with the indoor maintenance, the garden was Mum’s domain. I can still picture her out here, floral gloves on, a pair of secateurs in her hand and a bag full of pruned twigs and stalks by her
feet. She looked at peace in nature. However, towards the end of our time here, even that wasn’t enough to satisfy her. Today, there are no such things as flowerbeds or lawns;
they have all bled into a sea of green. Weeds stretch towards the pale blue sky from the second-floor guttering.
I’m too young to remember exactly how we came to live here or where we were before. But my brother, George, often shared tales of our family’s endless travels before we settled down, always on the move, rarely staying in one place for more than a few months, usually surrounded by people much older than Mum and Dad. I have a faint recollection of two adults already living here when we first arrived, but they didn’t stick around for long. Soon, the house was ours to explore. “Dad says we’re cuckoos,” George explained, though I didn’t quite grasp what he meant.
Now, my gaze is drawn to the two bay windows, all six panes boarded up, presumably to keep trespassers out. I glance at the spot where the lawn used to be, half-expecting to see remnants of the chair I threw through one of those windows. Memories and long-buried emotions flood back, overwhelming me like waves that threaten to knock me down. I know I’ve developed a tougher exterior since those days, but underneath, I’m still that same scared child.
As the lorry drives away and the new occupants emerge, my focus lingers on her more than him. She walks tall, shoulders back, exuding confidence, yet she clings to his arm as if for support. She’s an actress—she needs him more than he needs her.
I can’t help but think how fortunate they are to be unaware of this place’s history. Even after decades away, I remain woven into its very fabric. I’m the mortar between the bricks, the pipes connecting each faucet, the beams supporting the roof. I’ve never truly escaped; I am it, and it is me. Good or bad, this place has shaped who I am. To some, I’m a savior, to others, a monster. I know the work I’ve done, the souls I’ve saved from suffering, but it’s a burden I can’t share. They wouldn’t understand. To them, I’d always be the monster.
BEHIND THE HEADLINES PODCAST
EPISODE 4/6 PARTIAL TRANSCRIPT OF AN
INTERVIEW WITH GABBY GIBSON,
RESIDENT AND LANDLADY OF THE WHITE HART PUB, STEWKBURY
Can you tell us when you first became aware of work being carried out at the house?
The first of the lorries started thundering through our narrow village lanes about a fortnight after the sold sign went up. The noise made my windows rattle. I thought we were having an earthquake.
As their nearest neighbour, what could you see?
Nothing from here, but I’d get a better view when I took the dog for a walk. After they spent a few days hacking the garden down you could finally see what had become of the place that’d
been hidden all those years. It was a hell of a project to take on.
You grew up in the village. Can you tell our listeners what you remember about the house?
I’ve never known it to be occupied. The back garden is enclosed by walls and it isn’t overlooked. So as teenagers, it was the perfect place to skip school, spend the day getting stoned and drinking cider, before sobering up and going home. But none of us ever tried to go inside. There was something so creepy about that place that not even a group of pissed-up teens were stupid enough to break into.
How did the rest of the village react to what was later found inside?
As you’d expect, with total shock. It’s worse than any of us could have imagined.
