Ghost Monster

by Simon Clark

  Nat gently pried a shard of bright orange Samian ware from the earth. On it were scratched words in Latin. Plenty of time to decipher those later. Even so, he itched with curiosity. Strange events occurred here in AD300. Roman soldiers went berserk and then attacked their comrades. He needed to know the full story.

  Carefully, he placed the piece of pot in a finds tray. At that moment he froze. A groan burst from his lips. For all the world, it felt as if a hunk of cold iron had been rammed through his forehead. A second later, he clawed at the side of the pit.

  ‘Bury me alive, would ya! Bury me with blood in my veins? I’ll kill ya. I’ll rip ya sideways, so help me!’

  The walls of the pit appeared to close on him. The stench of damp earth clogged his throat. Why did this seem so familiar? How could he know what it was like to be laid in a grave? Then to feel cold soil pour over his face.

  Hands grabbed hold of him. Bellowing, Nat fought to be free. Faces … his enemy’s faces loomed overhead. They were here to destroy him.

  Howling, he lunged at the woman, hands at her throat.

  ‘Nat! It’s me, Kerry. Calm down!’

  All of a sudden the strength bled from him and he dropped to his knees.

  Gasping, he stammered, ‘W-What happened to me? I can’t remember … everything went strange …’

  ‘Don’t worry, Nat. It’s not your fault.’ Kerry’s face was grim. ‘You weren’t yourself for a while.’

  She told him not to worry, but Nat realized he’d never seen his boss look so worried before. It was still daylight, the evening sun had broken through, the sea shone blue. He heard her mutter, ‘Oh God, they’re not restricted to the night. They’re breaking out during the day.’ With those, to him, inexplicable, yet peculiarly unsettling comments, Kerry helped him to her car for the drive to Calder-Brigg.

  7

  FROM THE CELL Horace Neville watched the sun set. Darkness seeped over the town. In those shadows were yet deeper shadows. They moved with a predatory menace. The same eager stealth as hunting wolves. One moment he stood at the barred window, asking himself why he’d been locked in this little whitewashed room, with its single bunk, when a cold pressure started above his eyes.

  It could have been the start of a crushing headache. Yet after a moment’s resistance, as if his brow held some invasive force at bay, until it could repel it no more, there was a sense of yielding. Then his mind was thrust aside with all the contempt of a car-jacker bundling a driver from their seat behind the wheel, then taking their place.

  The possessed giant of a man stood patiently, a smile playing on his face, his eyes burning with a keen intelligence. Eventually, the steel flap in the cell door flicked down. A constable set a plate of sandwiches down on the flap along with a paper cup, containing milk.

  ‘Eat up, Horace, lad,’ said the middle-aged man. ‘The police doctor will be along later to check that you’re still healthy and in one piece.’

  The prisoner didn’t answer.

  With a regretful sigh the constable added, ‘I’ve known you for years, Horace. I’ve seen you many a time sitting on a chair outside your front door. If it helps, I don’t believe you knew you were hurting your mother.’ He tapped the sandwich plate. ‘Now, eat up. When they transfer you it might be a while before you’re fed again. Did you hear me, Horace?’

  The big man in the paper coverall turned to fix the constable with a glaring, insightful eye. ‘I’m not this … Horace you speak of.’

  ‘Suit yourself, lad. I know you have your little fantasies.’

  The prisoner curled his lip. ‘Fantasies? There’ll come a day when you wish to God that you’re faced with mere fantasy and whimsy.’

  ‘Eat your sandwiches.’

  ‘What does this name mean to you: Justice Murrain?’

  ‘Now, now, Horace. Enough of the silly talk.’

  ‘Justice Murrain. You know that name, don’t you? In Crowdale it is not so much a sobriquet as a legend. So, sir? What do you think to my new flesh? Quite a giant, eh? A veritable tower of mutton.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll keep it for now. It serves a purpose. Regard these fingers, sir. Aren’t they formidable? They could belong to an ape.’

  ‘Don’t start behaving the lunatic, Horace.’ The policeman had grown nervous. ‘Just tell them what you did, lad. The death of your mother was probably an accident.’

  ‘Her death an accident? Ha! Hardly. Neither will yours.’

  Rattled, the policeman stood back from the cell door.

  The prisoner spoke swiftly. ‘I know there are still Murrains in the town. Bring one to me.’

  ‘You’re not allowed visitors.’

  ‘Surely I am, sir. A mental defective locked away in your jail must have the right to advice and guidance from an independent party of sound mind. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘The court can authorize—’

  ‘Courts be damned!’ He loomed toward the cell door. ‘Bring a Murrain here to me. It’s time I was reacquainted with men of my own blood.’

  The constable, now safely beyond arm’s reach of the prisoner, did not budge.

  The possessed man gave a secret smile. ‘If you don’t agree I can arrange a display for our amusement. What if, for example, I had the power to make your good lady wife stroll naked through the streets to this gaol? Might that persuade you to obey me?’ His smile grew wicked. ‘During that walk, she would offer the services of her ample womanhood to any passing gentleman.’

  The policeman’s nerve broke. He hurried back along the corridor with the prisoner’s laughter ringing in his ears.

  8

  REBECCA LOWE SAT in front of the mirror. She was in an armchair; her sons stood at either side of her.

  ‘See that face,’ she breathed, as she stroked the disfigured half. ‘Jacob Murrain did that to me. He used the lamp from that shabby little building in the graveyard.’ Her finger stroked a line across skin that was by turns puckered, or smooth as plastic. ‘Jacob Murrain has been mocking me for thirty years. He destroyed my beauty … and I was beautiful, boys. Every man in Crowdale desired me.’

  In the reflection she saw her sons as well as her burnt face. Scott appeared uncomfortable when she talked about how sexually desired she was by the males of this little coastal town. Then I was. Even the mayor himself had moaned with pleasure when he finally got chance to undress me that Christmas Eve … that’s before Jacob Murrain killed my looks.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘when are you going to make me proud of you?’

  Scott replied, ‘We only have to wait another week or so, Ma. Every day the cliffs are being eaten away by the sea. By the end of the month, Murrain’s building in the cemetery will be gone.’

  ‘Murrain must suffer, but not from what the sea is doing naturally. He should know that it’s our family that has revenged itself on him. You must break his heart.’

  ‘But how, Ma?’ burbled Ross in those thick tones of his. His bald scalp reddened as emotion gripped him. ‘We already punctured the tyres on his grandson’s pick-up. What more can we do?’

  ‘Isn’t it time you confronted his grandson? Frighten him.’

  They shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Jack isn’t a weakling, Ma.’

  Ross agreed. ‘Last night he tried to shove Bill Tawny’s face through a wall.’

  ‘That’s right. Bill saw him with some woman from the dig. Jack pounced on Bill for nothing.’

  ‘Is this woman Jack’s girlfriend?’

  ‘We saw her at his house.’ Ross shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Good.’ Rebecca pulled her hair forward to hide the scars. ‘If you can make her life a misery that will make the son unhappy, which in turn makes Jacob suffer. Do you follow me, boys?’

  Ross would stolidly obey; Scott showed signs of unease.

  ‘Remember what the doctors are saying?’ said their mother. ‘My heart won’t last until Christmas. You don’t want me in my grave, knowing that Jacob Murrain is still sneering at me, do you now?’

  Tears
sprang from Ross’s eyes. ‘Don’t say that, Ma. You’re not going anywhere. Them doctors know nothing.’

  Tellingly, Scott didn’t make a comment. Then Scott always was the smarter of the two.

  Rebecca nodded. ‘The girl is the key. Use her to make Jacob Murrain suffer.’

  9

  A MIDDLE-AGED POLICEMAN led Jacob Murrain to steps that descended to a row of cells. The gates of every single one was open, bar one at the end. When the policeman saw Jacob had noticed the vacant cells he explained that the other occupants had been moved out, either bailed, or transferred to another town. This was a small station in a little town. Law-enforcement resources were limited. Yet the killer in the only occupied cell required special attention.

  As he descended the steps in front of Jacob, the policeman suddenly stopped. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this, you know.’

  ‘Then why do it, Constable?’

  ‘Because I don’t know what I’ve got down here.’

  ‘Horace Neville, isn’t it? As far as I know, he’s the poor guy with learning difficulties. I’ve seen him sitting out in the street, but I’ve never spoken to the man.’

  ‘That’s him. For years he’s told folk he’s got an invisible friend.’ The constable laughed. It sounded more like a sob. ‘At least it’s supposed to be Neville.’

  ‘Then why have you asked me here? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because he demanded that you come and talk to him.’

  ‘Demanded? How can he demand anything?’

  ‘Because he can!’ The constable spat the words, like they tasted foul in his mouth. ‘Look. He warned me if we didn’t bring you here he’d make my wife walk to the police station naked.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forty-five minutes ago I had a call from my neighbour. He said he’d seen Sheila heading up the lane toward town. As she walked, she was taking her clothes off. The neighbour and his wife brought her here wrapped in a blanket. Is that a compelling enough reason I agree to what the maniac wants?’

  ‘Dear God in Heaven.’ Jacob began to suspect what lay in wait for him at the end of that tiled corridor. ‘Did you speak to your wife?’

  ‘She doesn’t know me. Everyone she meets she begs to be fucked.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jacob steeled himself. ‘Take me to him.’

  ‘Keep back from the gate – well back! Horace Neville won’t be as you remember him.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  Together they walked along the corridor. In the cell, a shadow was waiting.

  10

  ‘CALDER-BRIGG COULD be a million miles from Crowdale.’ Jack Murrain regarded the flow of cars past the multiplex cinema. The faces of the townspeople were somehow brighter. Back home everyone had dour expressions, as if some insurmountable problem worried them.

  Pel Minton smoothed down the material of her dress as they waited in line for the ticket booth. ‘So, you’re glad you came to see me? Or do you wish you were back at Grandpa’s house, polishing your collection of cricket balls?’

  Jack laughed. ‘You are crazy, Pel Minton. I don’t have a collection of balls, cricket or otherwise.’

  ‘I thought all Englishmen played cricket?’

  ‘The other kids tended to shy away from we Murrains.’

  ‘Ah, the Murrain family curse.’

  ‘If anything, we have been cursed. The Murrain family have devoted their lives to protecting that damn mosaic of my equally damned ancestor.’ He wore a lost expression. ‘Only when I’m here in a big town like this all that seems unreal. I mean, why should I follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and go marching up to the mausoleum to sweep it clean, then fiddle around with that stupid oil lamp?’

  Imitating an old man, she croaked, ‘Keep the light burning, Jack. You must keep the light burning.’

  ‘Now I’m here all that seems dream-like. The obsessive behaviour – cleaning the mausoleum, tending the lamp, checking that nobody’s vandalized the mosaic.’ He glanced round at crowds of happy people, heading to the bowling alley, or clutching burgers from the building with the big M. ‘But my grandfather is sincere, you know? He’s made me promise to look after that pile of old stones when he’s gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have joked about it. The mosaic means a lot to your family.’

  ‘And everyone else, it seems. Your archeologist friends are busting their rumps to save it.’ He pulled banknotes out of his pocket, as they approached the booth. ‘My treat. I hurt you last night. The least I can do is pay for the film.’

  Pel told him not to bother with popcorn. After a day’s hard work on the Murrain site all she wanted was to feel a softly cushioned seat beneath her then to settle down into the velvety, comforting darkness of the cinema. Already trailers were being screened, so they had to fumble in the gloom to find empty seats. A bunch of kids laughed at teaser clips from a new blockbuster comedy.

  ‘I should warn you,’ Pel told him. ‘I laugh out loud when I see funny stuff on screen.’

  ‘Good,’ he said with feeling. Then, marvelling at being in such a cheerful place, he said, ‘When I get away from Crowdale I feel brand new. It’s like a weight lifted from me. For goodness’ sake, I feel excited. I’m happy.’

  ‘You should leave Crowdale forever.’

  ‘There are days when I want nothing more. And now I’m here, just an hour’s drive from home, it feels like a holiday. I want to shout stupid things. Tell jokes. Hear laughter. Dance. Sing. Do reckless things. Throw my shoes into a fountain.’

  ‘Kiss a girl?’

  ‘Hell, yes.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’ Pel clamped a hand at each side of his face then kissed him on the mouth. Her bruised lip still hurt, but when her mouth touched his the hurt became a delicious tingle. Neither broke away. The kiss went on until the trailers ended and the credits rolled for the start of the film. Then, at last, they sat back in their chairs. His hand found hers in the gloom. She held it there on her lap. Tightly.

  11

  JACOB MURRAIN APPROACHED to within six feet of the cell, mindful to be beyond arm’s reach of its inmate. The policeman, scared-looking, stood even further back down the corridor.

  Through the bars, Jacob could see the bulky figure of Horace Neville. Taunted ‘the village idiot’ by local kids, the giant gazed out through the cell window, his back to Jacob. For a moment, they remained silent; nobody moved. Then Jacob took one silent step closer to the bars.

  Horace spoke without turning, ‘I’m sure our constable, there, would advise you to desist from approaching the cell any further.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mr Neville?’

  ‘Neville? Ah … that’s the name of the flesh that clothes my wits.’

  Jacob surmised that the quick voice and precise diction he heard now didn’t match Horace Neville’s usual speech patterns. He began to suspect he knew the reason. ‘Why did you want to speak with me?’

  The giant continued to gaze out at the town. ‘The surface of it all has changed … true, most of the buildings are different; the hard, black surface on the roads is intriguing. Vehicles move without horses.’ His nostrils flared as he inhaled. ‘But Crowdale’s underlying stench is the same. Do you know what that smell is, sir? It is fear. Ignorance. Stupidity. The men and women of Crowdale have always wallowed in it. Why do these townspeople have to be so weak? It makes me angry to see them cringing. Even the constable, there, cowers – just like a dog before a raised fist. Now if—’

  Jacob interrupted, ‘Did you want me here to be your passive audience, so I could listen to your rather tedious observations? If you require nothing more than that, then you can bore those four walls. Good night.’

  As Jacob turned to leave, the prisoner laughed. ‘Ah, I like that. You’ve fire in your heart. The Murrains aren’t cold as cod yet.’

  ‘So, what do you want from me?’

  The man in the cell turned to fix Jacob with his uncannily sharp eyes. ‘Do you know who I am?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m told your name is Horace Neville.’

  ‘But you, sir, know my real identity don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’

  ‘And what is my name, sir?’

  ‘Justice Murrain.’

  ‘Ah, at last! I’m speaking to an equal. Someone with a mind.’

  The police officer spoke up, ‘What’s going on here? Why is Neville using a different name?’

  The prisoner laughed. ‘Don’t waste your time telling him, Jacob Murrain. He wouldn’t understand. Now … will you, my descendent, the vessel of my blood, shake me by the hand?’ He thrust a huge fist through the bars.

  ‘You belong in the ground! The son you mutilated, your descendants, all the way down the bloodline to me, have sworn to keep you there: dead and buried!’ He met the man’s stare. ‘If need be, I’ll sacrifice my own life keeping you there. You are poison, Justice Murrain.’

  ‘Tut-tut, Jacob. I made mistakes in the past, for sure. But now I am free I will correct those mistakes. This time I will do the right thing.’ He seized the bars as he spat the words. ‘Last time I let Crowdale live. Not this time. I’ll kill every man Jack of them. I’ll break the babies in their cradles. Then I’ll burn the town back to bare earth!’

  ‘I’m fetching the strait jacket,’ said the constable.

  Jacob Murrain shook his head. ‘This is temporary. Justice Murrain isn’t free yet. Not completely. Come daybreak, he’ll be drawn back to the mausoleum.’

  The constable frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Justice Murrain? He lived here hundreds of years ago. The man in the cell is Horace Neville. He can’t even buy chocolate by himself. He’s stupid. Congenitally stupid.’

  Jacob eyed the possessed figure. ‘For the time being, the man in there is no longer Neville. And he’s far from stupid. Justice Murrain was extremely intelligent. Oh, a psychopath to be sure, but he had a formidable mind.’