The Summer to End All Summers

(NOTE: Read ‘The Winter to End All Winters’ here first)

They looked at it and stopped dead in their tracks. Having emerged from the thick hedgerow, the property that now stood before the four boys was the most impressive sight their teenage eyes had ever seen. Giant oak trees flanked a sprawling, moss covered lawn, at the end of which sat the kind of house that was out of place in a village like theirs.

Not a house, Simon thought. This was more like a hall, like the one they had been dragged around on a recent school trip. Except this one was way cooler, way more valuable, because this one was theirs. Theirs because, crucially, this one was abandoned.

Gary was the first one to break the spell. Ever the hothead, he whooped as he took off down the long stretch of grass. The other three quickly followed, thrilled at the prospect of what lay before them.

Two minutes ago, they had been kicking around the fields at the village boundary, desperately trying to relieve the tedium of a summer holiday that was still just two weeks old. Now, they were alive with the thrill of discovery. This was their frontier. Who knew what treasures lay beyond? The anticipation was exhilarating.

Like an unopened present, they probed the timber slats for weaknesses, each of them wanting to be the first to discover the houses secrets, each savouring the puzzle that lay before them.

Finding the ground floor impenetrable, they ascended to the first floor by way of a flat roofed outer building. From this they discovered a forgotten bathroom window tucked away, and at last they had uncovered a way to breach the mysterious lair.

Broken glass and thick pieces of plaster crunched underfoot and the air in the house was an eerie, damp cool. Unnerving, compared to the temperature outside. The boys picked their way through the rooms, careful to avoid the exposed cables that hung, ripped from the walls.

‘There’s fuck all here,’ Peter Griggs said.

Simon stood at the top of the staircase and kicked a half brick down onto the lower level.

‘Let’s have a look downstairs,’ he said, hoping for support.

Duncan peered at the darkness. ‘Fuck that,’ he said.

But Simon was already committed, already halfway down. ‘Chickenshit,’ he said, and descended alone.

At the bottom he paused, giving his sight time to adjust, then crept carefully into a large open room. Thin lines of light crept from the edges of the secured windows, just enough to illuminate a path. Even so, as Simon felt glass crack beneath his feet his mind filled with unwanted images.

Picking his way from room to room, he was disappointed to find nothing sinister. There wasn’t anything even remotely interesting about the house, aside from a locked cellar door, and Simon knew he would never be brave enough to open that. The house was nothing more than a derelict shell.

This crashing realisation was mirrored in that moment by a loud thud from directly above. Its impact loosened a lump of plaster that fell a few yards from where Simon was standing. His instant reaction was to panic, but when he heard his friends start to laugh he knew that there was no need for concern. There was clearly more fun occurring upstairs and so he picked his way hurriedly back through the murky rooms.

‘What are you muppets up to?’ he said as he climbed the stairs.

Through a nearby window, he could see the long driveway that led up to the house. A rickety gate lay at the far end and Simon could now see an unoccupied police car parked on the other side.

Unoccupied.

Panic returned.

‘Shit,’ he said, and ran to the doorway of the room in which the boys were still laughing.

Duncan was winded, lying spread-eagled on the floor beneath a large hole. He had clearly found his way into the attic somehow and fallen through, bringing down almost the entire ceiling. Thick pieces of insulation rained down like snow, filling the air and covering the three boys from head to toe. The tiny filaments cast an almost blue tint as they danced against the sunlight.

‘Police!’ cried Simon, barely stopping in his urgency to escape.

The others froze, realised he was serious, then bolted from the room. In their wake, a flurry of wispy fibres.

‘Fucking hell,’ Duncan coughed, as they wrestled to follow Simon out of the bathroom window.

‘Yeah, get a move on,’ said another.

‘Or we’re dead…’