The Magic Cottage by James Herbert

little light-headed from the champagne and orange juice.
    So far, so good, I told myself.
    The rest of the morning was spent unpacking, moving furniture, reassembling units, fitting plugs, looking for items that had gone astray – the usual run of things when you move house and begin to wonder if your life will ever be organized again. Fortunately, having lived in an apartment for so long, albeit a large one, we didn’t have that much furniture to bring with us; even so, what we had was easily adequate for Gramarye.
    Eventually I found myself upstairs in one of the attic rooms which, I have to admit, was the place I’d been itching to get to all morning. That’s where my musical equipment had been put, you see, and was the intended location for my own simple recording studio. I squatted on one of my amps and considered the problems.
    Noise was one. I don’t mean noise going out – who the hell could it bother? – but the sounds coming in might prove a nuisance. I didn’t want every tape I made during the day to have a bird chorus. Fibreglass panels alternated with equal amounts of battening for bounce-back should overcome that particular problem, and two layers of plasterboard would also be needed for the ceiling. The room’s two small windows would either have to be double-glazed or blocked in.
    I mentally positioned a mixing desk, mastering machine and patch bay, forgetting for the moment the high cost of such equipment, content to enjoy the dream. Racks would be awkward because of the sloping roof, but the nineteen-inch assembling units could be spread outwards instead of up if necessary.
    What pleased me was that the atmosphere in the attic room felt so good. Certainly there was a mustiness about the place, but that could soon be cleared by leaving the windows open for a few days and installing heating for the colder times. I wondered what the acoustics were like and immediately reached for the pride of my guitars, a Martin 28.
    When I took the instrument from its case I was surprised to find it needed hardly any re-tuning after the move down. I chorded an E and the sound was rich and beautifully full, mellow but with that touch of hardness which could be softened or exaggerated depending on how the strings were struck. I did a few progressions, a few intricate runs, a few licks; I tried subtle augmentives and melancholy diminisheds and minor 7ths, loving the sounds, touching bass notes, taking lightning fingers up to the highest frets, filling the room and my ears and my mind with music, relishing one of those rare and exhilarating occasions when I felt total master of the axe.
    Only the noises from the loft brought my playing to an abrupt halt and my head back to the attic.
    I stared upwards and I’m sure my mouth was agape.
    No sounds now. Had I imagined them? I scanned the ceiling, my search coming to rest on the small square hatch that led into the loft. Rising slowly and wishing I hadn’t watched so many horror movies in my misspent youth, I stepped forward so that I was directly below the hatch. My head tilted back and I examined the trapdoor that was only a couple of feet or so above.
    My heart boogied when the sounds came again. I shuffled backwards, almost knocking over the Martin balanced against an amplifier. I grabbed the neck to save the guitar from toppling and its strings vibrated metallically. My grip tightened across them to kill the noise.
    I had no such control over the other noises, though. They came again, a kind of scratching scurrying. Maybe not quite that, but it was difficult to define.
    Ahh come on! I said to myself, going into one of my self-conversation modes, a way of goading myself on when I was uneasy about a situation. You’re acting like a maiden aunt! The first time you’re on your own in your new home and a couple of unexpected noises make you piss-scared. So there are mice up there. What can they do? Nibble you to death? It’s an old house and bound to have lots of little