Black Ink - Part 1
It took days to get it all off. I scrubbed and soaked but I could still see it hidden in the grooves of my fingertips, stuck behind my fingernails, refusing to leave. I don't use black ink anymore - I’ve stopped drawing entirely, and I’ve yet to return to Fescue House. If I hadn’t been alone maybe nothing would have happened there, but it would have eventually - just somewhere else. I know that now. It wasn’t the black ink, the drawing, or even the house. It was me. I invited something in.
It happened at my aunt’s house. She’d asked me to stay at her modernist city-centre home - which promised light and space and warmth, in contrast to the chaotic and fraught flat-share I was enduring. We’d spoken on the phone and I’d told her my woes. It wasn’t just the caustic atmosphere in the flat that was troubling me, but I was also feeling the pressure of a work deadline. She insisted I book a train ticket to stay with her - I could finish my work in calm comfort while she looked after me, and she could show off her newly finished, architect-designed home - Fescue House. I booked the train ticket straight away.
A couple of days after we’d spoken, I stepped into Hollydun Place, a small cobbled square in the heart of the city. It was a sunny, lively spring day but I was struck by how still and dark the square was, as if the sun and the throng of the city couldn't reach into it. The square was largely made up of stern-looking Victorian red-brick buildings, most of which were offices and one a school. An old grey church nestled in the far corner. Towards the back of the square, opposite the entrance, were two identical houses standing dazzlingly and defiantly modern in concrete, timber and black-framed glass. One of them belonged to my aunt. They were like handsome watchmen observing all who entered the square. It felt as though they were watching me as I approached.
As I walked up to Fescue House, my phone began to ring. It was my aunt - she’d been trying to reach me all morning, she wasn’t at home, and she was incredibly sorry but her work trip had been extended. She wouldn’t arrive until the next day. The spare keys were in a secure box in front of the house, and with the neighbours away she said I could revel in the tranquility.
I lingered outside the house for a few minutes. I liked solitude but not isolation. I was fine being alone provided the bustle of life was going on around me, and despite its city-centre location, this house felt strangely remote. The worst part - the thing I dreaded most - was staying the night by myself. This never used to bother me, but during the few times I’d been alone in recent months, I’d found it difficult to sleep and had to leave the lamp on all night. If I did manage to drift off, I’d sensed a presence and woken up abruptly, heart racing, skin prickling, unable to move. I’d found it strange; at the time I was ensconced in holistic wellness and energy healing classes, which kept me calm and positive most of the time, and so I couldn’t understand where the fear of being alone at night had sprung from. Whatever the reason, I was careful to avoid it. Yet there I was, about to stay in a large unfamiliar house, in a secluded square, on my own.
The sleek front door opened smoothly and I stood in the hallway, taking in the space. Huge jewel-coloured orbs hung from the double-height ceiling, more like sculptures than lights. The floors were in smooth stone, the walls a textured lime-wash and a wide stone staircase with panels of wood and copper swept to the upper floors. I explored the rest of the house while also searching for the best place to work. On the ground floor was a dining room, a small sitting room with a gigantic TV, a study, and the kitchen.
The main living room was up on the first floor - when I entered it I could see why. It had spectacular floor-to-ceiling windows giving expansive views of the river and sky, and had a door leading out onto a long balcony, where the sun fell freely. My bedroom was also on the first floor. Decorated in soothing neutral tones, it was spacious with dual-aspect windows. There was a tree outside the main window with a view of the stolid square behind it, and the side window looked across to the church with ancient grey tombstones protruding from its grassy yard.
I decided the kitchen was the place. Spanning the length of the house, windows on three sides allowed light to spill in throughout the day. There was a walled garden at the back, bursting with meadow flowers and blossoming trees. It also had supplies - a full fridge and an espresso machine. I opted for the wide central island rather than the table and unpacked my materials and laptop. I took out my obsidian crystal point and placed it on the counter to bring good energy.
I worked as a designer at a large book publisher and after assisting on projects for a while, I’d been given my first assignment to lead on. It was to design the artwork for a young adult novel called The Home that Didn’t Belong. The story was about a teenager who moves to a small village. As she struggles to fit in, she becomes obsessed with an impressive house and the enigmatic family that live there.
The author hadn’t provided much detail about the house, but it was supposed to be large, lavish and conspicuous. Callie, the editor, said it should look desirable but have a hint of an edge - and under no circumstances should it resemble a gothic haunted mansion. I was a good illustrator and decided I would draw the cover image. Callie didn’t like my initial concepts however, and suggested we should hire a freelance illustrator. I convinced her not to and fortunately she liked my next idea; a modern building with clean lines and lots of glass. I suggested using Indian ink - black ink only - to provide a sombre, eerie mood. She was happier with this idea. But I struggled. I couldn’t get the exterior of the house quite how I wanted it, unable to capture the right look and feel, and so the pressure increased as the deadline neared.
I prepared the area and got out my latest illustration wondering how I could improve it. Then stopped. I took my phone and the house keys and went outside to the small front garden with its trees, and planters full of wispy grass. I stood back and gazed up. This was it. My aunt’s house was a much better design than any of the houses I’d researched. It wasn’t quite palatial as such, and was in the wrong setting, but I could adapt it.
After taking a few photos, I paused. I’d felt movement at the nape of my neck as if someone had walked behind me and I lowered my phone. I could sense that I was being watched. I turned slightly and started. In my peripheral vision I glimpsed a still figure standing in the front garden under one of the trees, just a few metres away from me.
“Hello,” I shouted, and pivoted round to see who was there. I let out a small scream. Through the branches of the tree I could see a tall, thin person standing upright and staring directly at me, not moving, not speaking. I then realised what it was and shook my head, smiling. It was a statue - an iron man with no hair or clothes, a simple human-like sculpture. I continued taking photos of the house and returned inside, waving to the statue before closing the door. I’d found a solution to my floundering project.
I finished a rich warm coffee in the kitchen’s dappled afternoon light, tapped the chakra beads on my wrist, opened the sketchpad and began a new drawing. Starting with pencil then moving to ink, I kept to the style of Fescue House, expanded it and set it within huge landscaped gardens. I worked continually for a couple of hours until my arm ached. When I placed the pen down it clinked on the hard marble and I sensed the empty stillness of the house descend around me.
Read Part 2 in June 2026