‘It’s best if I don’t.’

Silence.

‘It wouldn’t look good if someone saw me. I’ll write to you every week.’

Silence.

‘I’m going to be busy going to viewings, anyway.’

He perked up at that. ‘Have you seen any yet?’

‘Not yet. I have one next week. It’s down in Galway. Nice and secluded.’

Silence.

‘I miss you.’

Shouting.

He sighed. ‘I have to go.’

***

It was springtime, mild and dry weather. The road the cottage was on was tiny, with no other houses for miles. It could barely fit one car on it and grass ran down the centre. Trees hundreds of years old loomed over each side of the road, leaving a dark shadow overhead. The overgrown shrubs and trees that surrounded it obstructed the view of the cottage from the road.

Mr Brady, the auctioneer who was giving the house viewing was already there. He towered over her; wired glasses that were too big for his face took over, making it difficult to figure out his lineaments.

He gave the usual polite introduction, directing them to the cottage.

‘Ah, I’m just on time!’

They turned around to face a man, still on the road but walking towards the gate. Mr Brady muttered Jesus Christ, under his breath.

‘Are you a neighbour?’ Carla asked.

‘I live 5 miles away.’

Carla peered out onto the road, looking for a vehicle.

‘You walked here?’

‘Beautiful afternoon for it!’

Carla looked toward Mr Brady for guidance. He gave an awkward smile, shifting from side to side.

‘This is Keith Lyons. He was a friend of the previous owner.’

‘I like to help show people around. No one better to do that than the man who practically lived there for fifty years!’

She smiled at him; it was easier to propitiate him.

‘That makes sense. It’s nice to meet you.’ He shook her hand, warm and damp. A scent of sweat and a smoky smell of rashers.

‘Carla studied law, worked for a big solicitor in Dublin.’ Brady boasted as if he was trying to impress Keith about her credentials.

‘What brought you to this part of the country, then?’

Rent is too expensive.

I have a new job here.

My life in Dublin is over, I have nothing.

Mind your own business.

The answer altered depending on who asked.

‘The Bunny House is a fine place, you’re lucky to get a viewing!’

‘Bunny house?’

‘Aye, Monnie’s grandfather named it that. A lot of rabbits’ round in the backfield. Not so much anymore, unfortunately.’

Brady interrupted him, peremptorily informing him they needed to begin the viewing. Keith grumbled and sauntered towards the red door.

The Bunny House needed work. The outside resembled a thatched cottage out of a fairytale, adorned with white pebbles and a bright blood-red door.

The inside was more Annie Wilkes than Snow White.

Monnie’s belongings remained in the house. His jackets hung on the hallway walls; the tobacco scent lingered in the air. Eery heads of stuffed deer hung high on the walls of the sitting room, along with pictures of fish and wildlife. Two small bedrooms sat at either end of the cottage. One had red metal bunk beds, with cartoon bedsheets.

The bathroom was entirely pink, from the tiles to the toilet seat, a bathtub filled with daddy long legs. The walls had patches of dampness, and mould filled the window crevasses. An overgrown back garden with shrubs and weeds galore. The height of the grass had Carla’s trousers soaked, still damp from the mornings’ dew.

Her ears perked up at the mention of the cellar. She asked Mr Brady if she could see it. It was just as eery; possessed with the same indents of dampness in the corners, and dead flies littered together in heaps.

They ventured around the property, awkwardness in the air as Keith prattled on about the property’s history.

Keith got the message and said he’d be on his way home.

Mr Brady sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. ‘I apologise for him.’

‘Is he OK getting home?’

Mr Brady shrugged. ‘I offered him a lift. All I can do.’

Carla asked, ‘What’s his story?’

‘He enjoys showing people around the place. My parents said to just leave him, he’s lonely.’

‘Is he looking to buy it himself?’

‘Doubtful. He has shown no interest in putting an offer in.’

Carla spoke without a second thought. ‘I want to put an offer in.’

Brady’s eyebrows raised, but an enormous grin took over his face.

‘Great! We’ll discuss it at the office.’

***

Carla grinned as she walked around the property, her hands grasped together.

As great as the house had come along, Keith proved to be a menace. He constantly arrived outside the cottage. She pitied him at first, figured he was lonely after having lost his best friend. Now he was taking it too far. She’d arranged for someone to come out and have a look at putting electric gates in.

It was proving to be egregiously expensive. The lease on her place in Dublin had now expired, so she rented out a caravan in the garden while the place was being renovated. It was far from her life in Dublin working in the solicitors, living on Grand Canal Dock.

Surprisingly to her, she felt more content than she had in a long time.

It was dusk; she was sitting out the back in the caravan, kettle whistling until she heard scrunching on the stones.

It was Keith. He was skulking around the side of the cottage, inching towards the entrance to the cellar. His head ducked down, swaying, unable to walk in a straight line down the steps.

‘Keith? What are you doing here?’

He jumped. He traipsed up the steps towards her, his face corrugated into a frown, cheeks darkened. ‘Stay back! I know all about you!’

She guessed by the cadence of his voice he’d been drinking. ‘You can’t just keep walking in here Keith.’

‘Stay away from me!’

‘Look, calm down Keith. You’re confused. Can I get you some water?’

‘I’m calling Guard Lyons. I know about the court case, I know you got sacked for working with a drug dealer! You’re up to something in the cellar. What’s that stuff in there?’

‘You need to leave. You’re not making any sense.’

He shouted at her. ‘I read all about you online. You’re a criminal and I’ll make sure everyone knows it! Monnie couldn’t have this going on in his family home!’

‘Just because something is on the internet doesn’t mean it’s true. Tell me what you read, then.’

Pages of speculating on an Irish forum, people discussing the court case.

I know someone who worked for the solicitors. She cocked the whole thing because she was having an affair with the lad.

Was she fired? 

Not technically but asked to leave.

That’s mad, like something out of Eastenders.

Poor fella. He wasn’t even dealing; he was found with the weed on him. He gets done and there are nonces getting off with a warning.

The discussion continued, escalating to roars of indigitation, of the justice system’s impotence.

Her face remained stoic. ‘This means nothing.’

Keith flung forward to grab the pages out of her hands, swaying side to side.

‘So, they’re not talking about you? Having an affair with a drug dealer?’

Her hands shook as she attempted to hold on to the pages. ‘Where did you print these off?’

His hands grabbed at her again. ‘Ah, so they are talking about you?’

‘I didn’t say that. Where did you print these off?’

‘At the library. Give it back, will ya!’

‘Who saw them?’

‘The one who works at the desk.’

She pointed down the steps at the cellar. ‘Did you open this?’

He shrugged. ‘It was open when I got here.’

‘Don’t act the fool, Keith.’

‘I spent years coming here every day, sure. I know the place inside and out.’

‘You have a key? I need that back. I own the place now.’

‘Not a hope I’ll give the key back to you!’

She roared. ‘Keith, will you STOP IT!’

Her face cringed as she saw him falling face-first down the stone steps, the pages flying around him.

***

Two months had passed since Keith died. His death should have been the answer to her problems. He was the closest neighbour, the only one who posed a threat to her plan. No one else around here knew of her secret; she was free.

Keith had been ‘fond of the drink’, getting worse since Monnie died. It wasn’t suspicious that he got drunk and fell. No family left to scrutinise the circumstances.

She possessed no belief in an afterlife or the paranormal, but she was sure Keith was haunting her.

Maybe it was paranoia. She wasn’t sleeping much and had started smoking more than usual. The only way she could sleep without dreaming of Keith screeching as his short legs tumbled over his body, head splattering on the stone pavement.

Once Asen got here, she’d be fine. That’s what she told herself at night, as she heard the same scrunching on the steps from the night Keith was there.

It was 2:34 A.M. She woke to her phone vibrating. She’d smoked a joint and fallen asleep with it in her hand.

It was Stephen. Asen’s best friend.  She didn’t know him, only spoken to him a handful of times. Her heart raced.

‘Oh God, Carla, I don’t know what to do.’ He sobbed on the phone.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘He wanted to surprise you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was let out of Mountjoy early. He was going to go to the house himself and surprise you.’

She sat upright. ‘What happened?’

He bawled. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have kept an on eye on him, he mixed too much together too soon.’

‘He’s dead?’

She hung up the phone and walked outside, out to the cellar. The bright lights in the cellar burned her eyes. Nothing had grown inside yet, so she grabbed some stash she bought and started rolling.

She peered into the corner; Keith smirked at her; his teeth covered in blood. Another large man beside him. They bellowed in laughter together.