Ghost Monster

by Simon Clark

‘I hope to God he is. I haven’t been able to reach him yet.’ He thumbed buttons on his phone. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t why I needed to speak to you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Here it comes. Pel, I don’t think we should see one another again.

  Instead, of uttering words of rejection he showed her the phone’s screen. ‘When I switched it on this morning I got this. A series of video clips.’ He grimaced. ‘They’re not pleasant.’

  ‘So, why—?’

  He interrupted, ‘Because I’m sure it has a bearing on what happened the other night. Watch.’ Thumbing a control, he held the device so she could see the screen. ‘As I say, you’re going to see some intense stuff.’

  Jack hadn’t exaggerated. At first, it seemed typical phone footage captured when people had been hitting the liquor hard. The outdoors scene had been lit by car headlights. An area of rough grass. Laughter, shouts. Drunken horseplay. In seconds, though, Pel realized she witnessed a vicious attack. A guy with his pants round his ankles got a thrashing from a young thug built like a heavy-weight boxer. Then came a flurry of other shots, revealing a half-naked woman being ridden like she was an ass, then beaten with a belt. Moments later, her attacker knelt on the woman, strangling her.

  ‘Dear God, this is awful. Don’t show me anymore.’

  ‘No, you must.’ Arm quivering with tension, he held the phone closer.

  Now, she saw two heads on the little screen. It could have been the kind of gooey shot lovers take; they sit side-by-side, their heads touching, as both look into the camera that one of them holds. Straightaway, Pel realized that these were two young men in a car. The car jolted over rough ground. One of the men, the thug who’d beaten up the courting couple, sagged down, clearly only half conscious. The other wore such a leering expression of delight on his face that it made Pel feel physically sick. Pure evil blazed from the guy’s eyes. This was someone who drank cruelty like an alcoholic gulps vodka. This individual feasted on sadism. Inflicting suffering was their true love.

  ‘I don’t want to see what happens next. It’s going to be awful.’

  ‘Keep watching,’ Jack insisted.

  At that moment on-screen a remarkable transformation occurred in the car. The flesh of the guys’ faces rippled. The thug recovered consciousness. His eyes went wide. The expression of horror managed to horrify Pel in its own right. Then something really strange happened. All the crud that accumulates in old cars – paper cups, gum wrappers, cigarette packets, lighters, coins, maps, pens, lengths of string, paperclips – all of that which normally languishes in storage compartments under the dashboard and in doors, abruptly drifted upwards. Coins, pens, silver foil, beer bottles, you name it, became weightless. This, and the way the men’s faces rippled, reminded her of astronauts floating in zero G out in space. That’s when she examined the screen closer. Through the car’s rear window she could identify a cliff-top in the tail-lights. It receded at a hell of a rate.

  Screams came from the thug. The other guy wore the happy smile of a sand-boy.

  The screen crashed to black.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Pel breathed. ‘This was filmed as the car fell from the top of a cliff.’ She shuddered. ‘Jack, how did you get this?’

  ‘A guy I know sent it to my phone just around midnight last night.’

  ‘He’s sick.’

  ‘He’s dead.’ Jack switched off the phone. ‘The happy-looking soul in the movie you’ve just watched is … was Drake Epworth. He filmed this, then he must have pressed send just before the car hit the beach. The other guy was Mitch Gill, a nasty piece of work, the town bully. He was the one attacking his ex and her boyfriend.’

  ‘Then this Drake Epworth must have been even worse. Who films their own suicide?’

  ‘Yeah …’ Jack said, doubtful. ‘Only he wasn’t that kind of guy. He was sneaky. He liked to gossip behind people’s backs, but this wasn’t his style, if you could call filming your own death “style”. He worked for us from time-to-time, when we needed an extra pair of hands with the logging, that’s why he had my number. I’ve known him for years. Yet when I saw his face on that screen this morning it was like I didn’t know him at all. As if something had got into him. Insanity? Drugs? Only it seemed to be more than …’ His voice tailed away as his attention was caught by the TV. ‘There’s your proof the film wasn’t a hoax.’

  Pel turned to the TV. It showed footage of a mangled wreck lying in a pool of water. The clerk had the sound turned down to the point where she only heard snatches of the newsreader’s commentary. ‘… remains of a car found on the beach this morning … police say it’s too early to say … bodies of two local men … Mister Gill, released from prison last month, where he’d served … next of kin have been informed …’

  Jack Murrain was a man in a hurry. He found it hard to sit still.

  Pel said, ‘I’m sorry about the loss of your friends.’

  ‘They were no friends of mine. Truth is, the town’s better off without them. Especially, Gill. He’d done plenty of prison time for half-killing people because he’d taken a dislike to their faces.’ He stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll try calling my grandfather again. I’m worried about him.’

  He went out through the doors to stand outside. She appreciated his charming manner. He considered it bad form to make a call in her presence. Not that she minded. Come to that, there was a lot she didn’t mind about Jack. Often, she found herself picturing his face when he wasn’t there. And if there had been a vacant room in the motel last night, then those hours of intimate darkness might have turned out very differently. As it was, they’d found themselves bunking in separate rooms. Of course, there was always tonight. ‘If Crowdale hasn’t gone totally nuts by the time we get there,’ she murmured to herself.

  Jack returned. ‘Something is wrong,’ he told her brusquely. ‘My grandfather has asked me … well, demanded, really … that I stay out of town.’

  Why?’

  ‘He won’t say. Other than to trust him, and to find an old friend of his in Calder-Brigg, who’ll be able to spare me a room.’

  ‘He didn’t give you any clue about what’s happening there?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So what are you going to do, Jack?’

  He flashed her a rather wild smile. ‘Disobey him, of course. I’m going right back there to talk to him face to face.’

  ‘You’d disobey him?’

  ‘He’s been a father to me, Pel. If he’s in danger I’m going to be at his side to meet it head on.’ He pulled out his keys. ‘Grab your things. I’ll meet you at the truck in thirty seconds.’

  2

  THE COPS’ CHANGE in shift brought new guards for Horace Neville – or at least the individual officers believed was Horace Neville. If anything, that morning, rumours circulated that the wife of one of the constables had been brought to the station in a manic state of mind, not to say undress. As the constable had hurried off-duty to get his wife home he’d called out, ‘Watch Neville. He’s changed. Don’t trust him.’

  Three police officers were instructed to take their murder suspect, Horace Neville, by car to the county’s police HQ in Calder-Brigg. There, the prisoner would be interrogated by detectives expert in handling psychiatric cases.

  A sergeant approached the cell. He’d known Horace Neville for years. Ever since Horace had been the unusual child, who’d run down to the beach, where he’d rush into the surf, because he said he saw pirate ships sailing by and he wanted to join them. The sergeant, nor anyone else, saw any pirates. Neither did they notice the other marvels that Horace Neville claimed to behold: everything from foxes shopping in the supermarket to the invisible companion who sat with him outside his home.

  The sergeant pushed his face toward the bars. Beyond them, Horace, a giant of a man, a hitherto gentle giant, stood gazing out as the sun rose over a blustery Crowdale. He wore a paper coverall; undoubtedly, his bloody clothes were now being scrutinized by forensics.

  The big man murmured without turning,
‘Veni, vidi, vici.’

  ‘What was that you said, Horace?’

  The man spun round. ‘I said I want my mother. I’m frightened. I want her.’

  The sergeant sensed that Horace, who normally behaved like a little child, was secretly laughing at him. A fierce intelligence burned in his eye. Then Horace’s voice quavered. ‘I want my mother now. Take me home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’ The sergeant spoke gently. ‘We can’t do that. You see, your mother’s had a bit of an accident. So, for now, we’re going to drive you over to Calder-Brigg, where someone needs to talk to you.’

  ‘Doctors?’ Horace’s voice had the timbre of a scared little boy. ‘I don’t like doctors.’

  ‘No, another policeman. Don’t worry, they won’t be nasty to you.’

  ‘Can I have some clothes, please?’ His huge fingers scraped at his chest. ‘This pyjama-thing is scratchy.’

  ‘Once you get to Calder-Brigg I’m sure they’ll fix you up with some proper clothes, son. The constables are here now. We’ll take you out to the car.’

  ‘Oh, now?’ Was that a glint of eagerness in his manner?

  ‘That’s right, Horace. A nice drive to Calder-Brigg. Nothing to worry about.’ He produced a set of handcuffs. ‘We’ll have to fasten these to your wrists, Horace.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s the rule, son.’

  ‘I’ll be good, mister.’

  The sergeant knew Horace’s way of speaking from past meetings. Now, however, the inflection had changed. When he said smartly, I’ll be good, mister it came across just that bit too glib. The sergeant eyed the big man at the other side of the bars. Horace smiled.

  ‘I really do promise to be good as gold, mister.’

  The sergeant handed the handcuffs to another constable. This officer had less patience.

  ‘Come closer, then put both your hands through the opening in the gate.’

  Horace, smiling, consented. The constable snapped on the cuffs.

  ‘OK,’ the sergeant said. ‘Now, we’re good to go. You can let him out, Johnson.’

  The constable produced a key then unlocked the cell.

  ‘We’ve got the car parked just outside in the yard,’ explained the sergeant. ‘There’ll be three of us with you in the car. You’ll sit in the back with me.’

  Horace nodded. When he walked purposefully from the cell into the corridor, his wrists manacled, the sergeant held up his hand.

  ‘Whoa, aren’t you forgetting someone?’

  The constables chuckled. The sergeant glared at them. Horace merely frowned; he didn’t know what the man was talking about.

  The sergeant nodded at the cell. ‘Who are you forgetting?’

  ‘Who’m I forgetting?’ Horace stared at him.

  ‘The little fellow. You know, your friend who sits next to you, when you’re on the chairs outside the house. Bobby?’

  Horace merely appeared annoyed, then the sergeant noticed his eyes slip out of focus, as he searched for a memory. At last, a dopey grin came back to Horace’s face. ‘Yes, the little fellow. Come along, Bobby. We’re going in a car. Can he sit on my lap?’

  The constables smirked. One couldn’t resist saying, ‘He can bloody well sit inside the engine for all we care.’

  The sergeant knew about Horace’s imaginary friend. If he humoured the big man it might make his journey to the outside world less fraught. Of course, at some point the man, whatever his mentally restricted state, must be made to understand that he’d beaten his own mother to death.

  When they reached the car the sergeant felt a tug of unease. It lacked the toughened glass screen between the rear seats and those of the front. Until he’d spoken to Horace Neville that morning, a lack of a security screen hadn’t been an issue, but the sergeant’s instincts made him suspicious of Horace. The man just didn’t seem like his usual self. Normally, the giant would shamble along in an ungainly, clumsy manner. Today, he moved with precision; he carried himself as straight-backed as a soldier. Strange.

  However, the glint of sunlight on the cuffs reassured the officer. The chains would safely contain the man.

  ‘OK, Horace, I’ll help you get into the car. Sit down, then swing those big legs of yours behind the driver’s seat. That’s it.’

  Soon the car pulled away from the police station into the town’s busy streets. However, within a few miles they joined a deserted country road that led toward Calder-Brigg. Horace didn’t speak. He watched the passing scenery with interest, as if much of it was new to him. A train pulling out of a rural station was especially fascinating.

  The only time he did speak was at a crossroads. Horace murmured. ‘Ah, yonder lane ran down to Murrain Hall.’

  The driver accelerated along the highway. There was little in the way of morning traffic out here. In that relaxed state that comes with being a passenger in a car the sergeant suddenly recalled what Horace had uttered in the cell that morning. Veni, vidi, vici. The sergeant’s long dead history teacher would have nodded with satisfaction as the cop recalled a fact from one of his lessons. Veni, vidi, vici. It was Latin. It meant: I came, I saw, I conquered.

  The sergeant regarded the giant squashed into the back seat beside him just as he lifted his manacled hands. Horace – or at least the figure they identified as Horace – gave a cold smile. At the same time he snapped the chain links on the cuffs.

  Then there was screaming. Terrible screaming. Before he died the sergeant realized those screams vented from his own lips.

  3

  PEL MINTON WOULD have dearly liked to accompany Jack Murrain to check on his grandfather. This had all the makings of an intriguing mystery. She wanted to find out why certain people in the town were acting so strangely. There’d been unsettling news reports on the truck’s radio as Jack had driven toward Crowdale. As well the two guys riding the car over the cliff-edge to their deaths, there had been random outbreaks of violence. Witnesses repeated the telling phrase that the perpetrators ‘weren’t themselves’.

  Pel checked the time, as Jack manoeuvred the truck along narrow country roads. If only she could grab a few moments to hear why Jacob Murrain was so desperate for his grandson to remain in Calder-Brigg. However, she knew she’d be missed at the dig site. Now, it was a case of all hands on deck. Time was short. Already the ocean would have claimed yet more dry land.

  Jack braked the truck at the cemetery gates. Already, early arrivers from the team had started work. The mausoleum lamp still lit its interior in a rosy light. Meanwhile, away over the sea, a bank of thick black cloud advanced menacingly toward the mainland.

  ‘Looks like stormy weather’s on its way,’ Jack observed. ‘I’ll give you a call and let you know how my grandfather is as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She opened the door. ‘Be sure to let me know if I can be of help. I’ll see you later.’ For an instant, she paused. After the kisses of last night she wondered if it would be repeated now, though the anxious way he tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel signalled that he was preoccupied with hurrying home to check on his grandfather. ‘And Jack?’

  He glanced at her.

  Pel smiled. ‘Be safe.’

  Jack nodded. A moment later he gunned the truck back up the lane.

  Pel zipped up her jacket against a biting wind. Figures on the dig site were hunched muffled things. That cold really tore through you. Pel hoped someone had remembered to bring the flasks of hot coffee. They’d need it today.

  She made her way amid the gravestones to the trench she’d occupied yesterday. One of the archeology students brushed soil away from a pair of skeletons lying side by side.

  ‘Twin burial,’ he said. ‘Probably a family tragedy. See burning to the finger bones? My guess is they both died in a house fire.’ He shook his head. ‘Rush mats on the floor, thatched roofs, open fires? A deathtrap. We don’t have time to examine this one properly. I’ll photograph the bones in situ. Once I’m done, would you cover them with soil for me?’ He gave a sad
smile. ‘Treat them gently, won’t you, Pel? They died young.’

  Who says there’s no room for sentiment in archeology? She’d seen more than one seemingly brusque archeologist, who loved nothing more to cuss, swear and crack bad-taste jokes, turn away with a tear in their eye when excavating the bones of children.

  More vehicles arrived. Soon the team were near thirty strong. Most worked in the excavation trenches in the graveyard. Nat chose to dig a test pit perilously close to the cliff-edge. He desperately wanted to uncover a section of Temple Central earthworks before they fell into the sea. For once, Kerry was nowhere to be seen. Usually, the whirlwind of a woman would be zipping round, checking finds, offering words of encouragement, or helping manhandle stone slabs that would defeat many a muscle man.

  Pel worked hard. Even so, curiosity about Jacob Murrain’s plea to stay out of town became a maddening psychological itch. Thirty minutes after starting work, a car roared up to the archeologists’ parked vehicles. Kerry shot from the driving seat, climbed the graveyard fence, then ran through the long grass. She beckoned them as she approached.

  ‘Gather round, people!’ The wind seemed to want to shout her down. An icy blast of air gusted through the cemetery, hurling dirt into people’s eyes. ‘Just two minutes of your time, please. I’ll make this fast.’

  They formed a semi-circle, all bulky in their layers of sweaters and fleeces. Dark cloud swamped the once blue sky. Jack’s right; a storm is coming. A ferocious one at that. Pel had to put her arm round a tomb’s stone angel to stop herself being toppled by the gale.

  ‘Is that everybody? Nat, you hear this too. Then I’ll let you get back to the dig!’

  Nat hauled himself out of the pit, then loped from the cliff to where a strange audience had gathered – one that seemed to consist of both human beings and stone tombstones that, for all the world, appeared to have gathered to hear Kerry’s words.

  She had to fight torrents of frigid air to make herself audible. ‘Listen. At the risk of being melodramatic … I bring good news – and a warning.’ The winds nearly toppled her. The woman steadied herself with a tombstone, bearing a skull and crossbones. ‘Good news first. Preliminary test results are back on the prehistoric skeleton – the one found at the entrance to Temple Central – and with the saliva swab Pel Minton obtained from Jack Murrain.’ She grew with triumph. ‘They are a match! We have established the oldest blood-link between skeletal remains and a living human being.’ Immediately, there was applause and shouts of YES! ‘That means the Murrain family have lived in this area for at least five thousand years. Temple Central is unique. Overnight, it has become one of the most valuable heritage sites in the world.’