Black Ink - Part 1
“I’ll be fine on my own.”
I said it again to myself as I stood in front of the empty house. My aunt had invited me to stay at her new place - a modernist city-centre home which promised light and space and warmth, in contrast to the chaotic and fraught flatshare I was enduring. We’d spoken a few days earlier, and I’d admitted the strain I was under, not only due to the atmosphere in the flat, but also from the pressure of an impending 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 would show me her newly completed, architect-designed house. I began to relax immediately after we spoke.
At around midday, I arrived in a pretty part of the city where independent shops and restaurants perched along tree-lined streets, with pastel-coloured houses scattered in-between. I stepped into a small cobbled square removed from the throng of the main streets. It was dominated by stern-looking Victorian buildings, softened by the central greenery of the square. Most of the red-bricks 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 - one of which belonged to my aunt. They were like two handsome watchmen, observing everyone who entered the square.
As I approached her house, my aunt called - she’d been trying to reach me all morning and was incredibly sorry but her work trip had been extended - she wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow. The keys were in a secure box in front of the house, and with the neighbours away, I could revel in tranquility, distraction-free.
Instead of feeling free, I felt dread. I liked solitude, but not isolation. I was fine being alone in busy places, aware of people around me, but this was not the same. Despite its city-centre location, this house felt secluded. Worse was the prospect of being by myself overnight which in recent months had begun to unnerve me. The last couple of times I’d been alone I’d had to leave the lights on and had barely slept. When I did drift off, I’d sensed an unfriendly presence and woken up abruptly, heart racing, hairs prickling, unable to move. It was perplexing to me as I’d been going to energy-healing workshops which had made me calm and positive during the day. I couldn’t understand why I’d be gripped by fear at night. Whatever the reason, I was careful to avoid spending the night on my own. The thought of doing so in an unfamiliar house, in a secluded square was unbearable. And here I was.
The tall, sleek front door opened smoothly - I jumped a little at the bleeping of the alarm and rushed to turn it off as instructed. Looking around the hallway, I was astounded. The floors were smooth, polished wood; the walls were a textured limestone wash. Huge jewel-coloured orbs hung from the ceiling, looking more like sculptures than lights, and a wide stone staircase with copper accents swept to the upper floors. My aunt was living in the pages of an interiors magazine.
I explored the rest of the house, mesmerised by impeccably designed luxury. I also needed to find the best place to work. I found the downstairs study. Its decor was dark - a walnut desk and bookshelves, walls in a deep olive green. The sunlight and cream rugs made the heavy colours seem opulent and inviting, but they might seem a bit gloomy and sinister after sundown. Next to the study was a small but cosy sitting room with large, squishy sofas facing a TV screen that filled an entire wall.
The main living room was up on the first floor -and I could see why. It had spectacular floor-to-ceiling windows allowing expansive views of the river, and a door leading out onto a balcony.
My bedroom was also on the first floor. Decorated in soothing neutral tones, it had a king-size bed and dual-aspect windows. The main window framed a tree just outside it with a view of the square behind, and a side window looked across to the church. The desk underneath was a potential workstation, but it didn’t feel quite the right place to work, and I wondered if tombstones in the church garden would be a problem for me later on.
My favourite room was back on the ground floor - the kitchen. Spanning the width of the house, the windows at either side allowed sunlight to spill in throughout the day. There was a walled garden at the back bursting with meadow flowers and blossoming trees. This kitchen was the place to work: it was light and bright, with a beautiful garden to gaze at. It also had supplies -a full fridge and an espresso machine. I opted for the large central island rather than the dining table and unpacked the materials from my case to get working.
I’d been in my job for a year - in the Art and Design department of a book publisher. After a year of assisting on other people’s projects, I’d been given my first assignment to lead on - to create the book cover and campaign for a young adult novel called The Home that Didn’t Belong. The story was about a teenager who moves to a coastal village. He becomes obsessed with an impressive house that he passes on his way to and from school, simultaneously fascinated and unsettled as he discovers its secrets .
The author hadn’t given much detail about the house other than it was large, lavish and conspicuous. The editor specified the house should be desirable but with a hint of an edge - and should not under any circumstances resemble a gothic haunted house. I was keen to do the main illustration, however the editor didn’t like my initial concepts and suggested we should hire a freelance illustrator. Crushed but determined, I convinced her that wouldn’t be necessary. My next concept was a modern building with clean lines and lots of glass, using only black ink to give a stark and sombre feel, adding shading and shadows for extra eeriness. She was happier with this idea. But I wasn’t able to get the exterior of the house right, hence the panic as the deadline loomed.
I set my pens out. I stopped. I took my phone and the house keys, I went out to the front and gazed upwards. This was it. My aunt’s house had a better style and structure than the houses I’d researched. It wasn’t palatial and was in the wrong environment, but I could adapt it. I took several photos and felt triumphant relief. Finally, a solution to my floundering project.
As I sipped a rich, warm coffee in the kitchen’s dappled afternoon light, I had a renewed sense of purpose, and even felt confident I’d be able to overcome the night fears. Earlier, I’d considered inviting one or both of my flatmates to stay with me - but as my anxiety retreated, I realised we needed space from each other. Our friendship had been strong not that long ago.
The three of us had met during our final year at university at a wellbeing retreat. We became close and as we neared the end of our university days, we decided we would rent a place together after graduation. We had shared beliefs like manifesting our dreams and creating positive energy, and at first the house was calm, tidy, welcoming - happy. Until the dynamic started to shift. We irritated each other, the flat became chaotic and messy, everyone stopped making an effort, and we retreated away from each other.
Abi, a friend from my course, had asked me not to go on that retreat; she said it could ‘invite in the wrong forces'. I laughed at her - it was the opposite I’d said - the retreat was to foster wellness and peace. We didn’t keep in touch but her words came back to me when hostility in the flat materialised. It seemed shrouded in bad energy - which aside from being ironic, was oppressive.
I finished the coffee, opened the sketchpad, and began a new drawing. I kept the style of the house but made it much larger, setting it in huge landscaped gardens. I had a productive, uninterrupted couple of hours until my arm ached. As I placed the pen down it clinked on the hard marble and I sensed the empty stillness of the house descend around me.