HARVEY'S HOUSE

CHAPTER ONE 

REAWAKENINGS

The sweltering afternoon sun beat relentlessly down as Harvey Bannister opened his front door a small degree and looked out. 

"Yes?" he said coldly, holding his hand up to shade his eyes, whilst squinting for added protection against the dazzling sunlight, "what do you want?" 

"Mr Bannister," barked Sergeant Josh Coleman, "you know me, don't you?" Harvey nodded but said nothing. Coleman continued, "I have reason to believe that a serious crime has taken place in your property and we need to search it right away."  

Harvey took a step back into the house, a look of disbelief on his face. Not wishing, however, to argue with Coleman who was a large, strongly-built man whose stature gave him an air of authority that easily intimidated even the toughest of suspects, Harvey found himself riveted to the spot. Shoving him roughly aside, Coleman led two more officers into the house, and they began to search each room in turn.

That had been in 1982, and now the house at the end of Chester Street stands empty. Once a fine example of late Victorian architecture, it had been built with the money made by a successful nineteenth-century cotton merchant, and had been home to him and his family for many years, during which time it had become a symbol of Victorian prosperity and respectability. Now, after years of neglect by various residents, it stood as an empty shell. Every window smashed, the brickwork dirty and crumbling, tiles missing from the roof, and the chimney, that had once stood tall and proud against the skyline, had now fallen into a state of total disrepair. The large oak tree that stood at the front of the house was stripped bare as, in the early February sunshine, the leaves had yet to return to the long, claw-like branches.

It seemed as if everything was dead here. The garden harboured no flowers or plants, no birds greeted each other in song, and no insects could be seen scavenging around for food. It seemed as if every creature that came within fifty feet of the house either died, or could not stand the desolation, and fled. The house itself appeared to be the largest corpse of all as, in its isolation, the wind raced through its upper floors, creating a low, wailing sound that reverberated through the derelict corridors. The grey sky above only added to the feeling of a life and time gone by, never to return. Even though the house had been rented out over the years, it seemed no one had loved it, and it now stood as a sad, sorry, shadow of its former self. The 'For Sale' sign that had been erected outside in 1982 had long since fallen to the ground, without anyone bothering to replace it. It was obvious that no one wanted to live here.

The residents of Castleford referred to this unloved and neglected place as 'Harvey's House'. Harvey Bannister had lived there for forty years until the day when he had been led out in handcuffs by the local police. Even though he had been a resident of this small village for years, nobody really knew Harvey, as he kept himself to himself and conversed only when he had to. He didn't work and, even though there was much speculation, no one actually knew where he got his money from. He had lived in the house with his parents and had grown up there, but even as a child he was somewhat of a recluse. Some of the older residents remembered his parents vaguely, but all they knew was that one day they had upped sticks and moved away, leaving Harvey there alone. Harvey was a creature of habit, and the only time he was seen was on his regular Tuesday and Friday visits to the local shop. Then, residents of Chester Street would observe a man that seemed to imitate the house itself, with his shabby appearance, pronounced stoop that gave the impression he was on the verge of tumbling down, and his long, grey hair and matted beard that hid his face and echoed the worn-out appearance of the house. He always wore a large, dirt-stained overcoat that reached right down to the floor, coupled with worn out shoes that had several holes which allowed dirty toes to peep through the top. His fingernails were long and always filthy, whilst a sweet, musty smell followed him around wherever he went. Above all, he never spoke to anyone. Just like his house, Harvey and his way of a life were a mystery.