ANTHONY MASTERS
GHOST
STORIES
TO TELL IN THE DARK
Contents
1 The Haunted Weir
2 The Dinosaur Cliff
3 I Dare You
4 Beat
5 The Snowman
6 Tunnel Vision
7 The Manse
8 The Black Hunt
9 Canyon
10 Drone
1
The Haunted Weir
Daniel first saw the boy practising stress-paddling in the white water below the weir. It was a late summer afternoon and the river was as hazy as the figure in the canoe.
The boy waved and Daniel waved back. He was an only child and often lonely, too much in the company of adults. Now that his parents had bought a house on the Thames, he had been hoping that he might meet more boys of his own age by joining a club and learning to canoe. But so far he hadn’t summoned up the courage to go along.
Daniel had seen groups of canoeists, some of about his own age, testing their skills in the white water, but they all looked so competent that he was sure he would never be as good.
He wasn’t frightened of the water because he was a strong swimmer, but in his mind Daniel could already hear the mocking shouts, already see himself capsizing. He stood on the bank, gazing out into the misty spray, listening to the roar of the weir, longing to do what the boy was doing as his canoe darted in and out of the torrent, emerging unscathed each time.
But then, quite unexpectedly, he capsized close to the fiercely foaming water and disappeared from sight. Daniel waited – but the boy didn’t come up.
He gazed at the frenzied water which now seemed to have lost its innocence; rather than being fresh and sparkling, it looked dull and cloudy. Still the young canoeist didn’t reappear. Was he trapped somewhere under the grey-green surface, snared by weed or some hidden object?
Standing there helplessly, Daniel knew he had to do something. But he seemed unable to move, to make a decision. Surely the boy would surface soon. He had to.
But he didn’t.
Daniel took off his shoes and shirt and dived, smelling weed and mossy wood as he broke surface just short of the weir. Gazing around him, he could only see translucent spray and boiling water.
Around the edge was a calm pool with a scummy mass of spume, grey and stagnant. Debris had piled up amongst it: dead wood, an ice-cream carton, little bits of styrofoam, the skull of a sheep, layers of leaves and mulch.
Beyond all this was the clear, sweeping power of the white water under the weir and the sound of the torrent tumbling over. The boy was somewhere in that. Daniel swam through the murk into the rapids, diving under the tumult but still seeing nobody, nothing, not even a hint of the boy or his canoe.
Again and again he dived, but there was no sign of his quarry. Daniel trod water, but he was getting tired and could feel the current tugging and pulling at him, eager to drag him down too and bury him under its deadly weight.
He was shivering now, going numb, wanting to give up, to sink slowly and with great relief into the soothing depths. Suddenly, Daniel let himself go and the river seemed to take him by the shoulders, playfully but lethally drawing him down.
He opened his eyes and saw little trails of bubbles rise above him towards the surface that was now dim and almost unreal. Lethargically, without any feeling of panic or attempt to struggle, Daniel allowed the river to take him.
As he sank he saw the boy, wraith-like, floating, his canoe broken in half and wedged under the weir. He was face up, mouth open, an expression of surprise on his drowned features, his eyes staring, one leg still caught in the crushed fibre-glass of his canoe.
The sudden panic saved Daniel, making him cleave upwards towards the surface, searching for the light, thrashing with his arms and legs until he broke through and was gazing up at the glorious sun and the cloud-free sky.
For a little while he floated on his back in relief, and then began to strike out for the shore, trying not to think about that pale bulbous thing below him. He knew he had to get help, have someone pull the boy out of the watery grave that so easily could have been his own. But why had he let the river take him? What kind of strange spell had he been under?
Then Daniel heard a distant shout and turned, gasping in disbelief at what he saw.
The boy was in his canoe, paddling through the white water, the spray rising above his fair hair and tanned face. He waved, just as he had before, in casual greeting.
Daniel swam to the bank, deadly cold, his whole body trembling. Dragging himself out, he lay face down on the warm earth. Slowly, the shaking stopped.
Daniel cautiously returned home, shoes and shirt in his hands, hoping that his parents would be in the kitchen and he could sneak upstairs unobserved. He didn’t want to talk to them or answer questions. All he wanted was to be left alone.
Dragging off his wet clothes, Daniel lay on the bed and thought about what had happened: the boy in the canoe waving and then capsizing; disappearing only to be found drowned – or appearing to be drowned – with his canoe broken and trapped beneath him. The same boy back on the water again, playing in the rapids, waving.
Putting his jeans and socks in a cupboard to dry, hoping against hope his mother wouldn’t find them – or notice the musty smell – Daniel put on dry clothes and went down to supper. All was normal, his parents were still talking about their new home, while he sat quietly, not really hungry but trying to eat in case they thought something was wrong.
After supper, while it was just still light, Daniel returned to the river bank. He watched the water glimmering in the sunset, its surface turning silver, the spray becoming darker by the minute.
Then Daniel saw the boy waving and edging into the frothing water. Without warning, he capsized and disappeared.
For a moment, Daniel felt an overpowering urge to dive in for the second time and swim towards the spot where the boy had gone down. In fact the urge was so intense that he found himself running towards the river bank, pulling at his shirt and then coming to a gasping halt, remembering how strong the current had been, how it had almost succeeded in dragging him down to the bitter cold of its depths. He wasn’t going in that water again. Not for anything. Not for anybody.
Was the boy deliberately trying to drown him? But who was he? And what about that pale underwater corpse?
Daniel decided to wander downstream a little before the light went completely. He remembered seeing a tumbledown boathouse, badly in need of repair, some fifty metres along the bank. Now some instinct made him want to explore the place.
*
The old boathouse seemed even more of a ruin than he had remembered it – a jumble of slats and spars and latticed wood that had all but collapsed into the river, some of the pulped planks floating in the reeds, covered in moss and algae.
Clambering down into the inlet, Daniel pushed his way through the foliage that clung dustily to the back of the boathouse and got stung by hidden nettles for his pains. But he persisted, eventually uncovering a half-open door that led into the dripping darkness.
A little light trickled through, and Daniel pushed his way in, carefully treading on rotten boards that he was sure would snap at any moment, sending him hurtling down into the dank, evil-smelling water below.
In the pallid light he could see a canoe lying on a pontoon, smashed into two jagged halves. Moored to a post was another canoe, floating on the dark water.
He stared at both of them for some time, and then slowly edged his way out of the boathouse and back on to the towpath.
Daniel knew who the broken canoe had belonged to. But what about the other one?
Before he went to bed, he asked his mother about the boathouse and was startled by the uneasy, slightly guarded look that leapt into her eyes.
‘You shouldn’t have gone in there.’
‘I only took a look.’
‘It’s dangerous,’ she said anxiously.
‘There’s a canoe in there,’ replied Daniel. ‘I was wondering if I could borrow it?’ The words came tumbling out before he could check them.
‘I think it must belong to the Ashbys. The big house further up river. We don’t know them.’ She sounded negative.
‘They can’t want it,’ he muttered, not mentioning the broken halves lying on the pontoon.
‘If you want a second-hand canoe maybe Dad will buy you one. That one doesn’t belong to us.’ She was brisk, slightly impatient, but he could sense that she was afraid.
Daniel turned away without replying. He didn’t want his father to buy him a canoe; he wanted the one in the boathouse.
That night he dreamt about the boy and this time he didn’t capsize. Daniel was paddling the other canoe, and he was just as expert, competing with his new friend in the roaring, tumbling, frothing water.
When he woke, he had an uncontrollable desire to take the canoe from the boathouse, even though he had never paddled one before in his life. What was he thinking of? Why did he feel so drawn to the weir? Why was he being so stupid?
When he came down to breakfast his parents looked conspiratorial, as if they had been talking about him, and then Daniel’s father cleared his throat.
‘Gather you found a canoe.’
‘Mum said it belonged to the Ashbys.’ He sounded defensive.
‘She also found some wet clothes in your bedroom. What were you doing? Swimming in the river fully dressed?’
‘Just thought I’d take a dip,’ mumbled Daniel.
‘In your clothes?’ his father repeated sharply.
‘I kind of slipped –’
‘Look here, Daniel. The river’s dangerous, particularly by the weir. You mustn’t swim in it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Promise you’ll stay away from it –’
But Daniel didn’t reply directly. Instead he said, ‘I’ve seen canoeists in there –’
‘They’re from the outdoor activities centre – with professional instructors. So don’t get any ideas of pinching that canoe and trying it out.’
Borrowing, thought Daniel fiercely. I’d only borrow the thing.
His parents were staring at him, but they both looked more afraid than angry now.
Next day was Sunday and Daniel helped his father to mow the grass and did some weeding for his mother. Gazing out at the river, he thought he had never seen it look so attractive. The sunlight dancing on the surface, the excitement of the swirling current and the roaring white water made him long to go to the boathouse, untie the canoe and paddle out to the weir.
Daniel strolled casually down the towpath, looking furtively over his shoulder to double-check that his parents had gone back inside. He knew they were going to watch a documentary and he had already checked its running time was ninety minutes. He had to take the canoe and feel the joy of paddling in the cool foaming weir. He must experience it.
Guiltily, he remembered his parents’ warning but, despite the danger he knew he was putting himself into, the urge was so strong he felt unable to resist it.
Regardless of the nettles, he pushed his way through the foliage and into the gloomy light of the ruined boathouse, grabbing a paddle from the pontoon and gingerly inserting himself into the moored canoe.
The fragile craft seemed very unstable as Daniel untied the mooring rope and pushed off, ducking his head under the sagging roof, inching himself through the narrow gap towards the river beyond.
Once he had extricated himself from the boathouse, Daniel felt even more unstable, dipping the paddle in tentatively, first one side, then the other, but only managing to get the canoe to slide sideways through the water towards the river bank.
With some difficulty, he pushed himself off and tried to paddle straight down towards the weir, but only succeeded in veering wildly from side to side, feeling a complete fool. He wasn’t afraid, although he knew he should be. The boy would be waiting for him at the weir and he would show him what to do. He would put him right. Now he was going to have a friend at last.
The boy waved, and Daniel clumsily steered his canoe towards him, the torrent making him even more unstable than before.
Suddenly all his fears returned and Daniel realized what a complete idiot he’d been. The current had him in its grip now and he would never have enough strength to paddle out of the tide race. Whatever was he going to do?
The boy waved again and began to come towards him, his fair hair flat and wet, a grin on his round face. He looked friendly, but when his paddle dipped in and out there was not the slightest sound.
Daniel’s canoe turned broadside on to the rushing foam, and he floundered about as his new friend came alongside, showing him a long sweeping stroke. When he moved away, Daniel copied him and found his canoe had turned miraculously out of the white water and into the calm of the shallows.
The boy grinned and Daniel grinned back.
‘Am I ready?’ he whispered.
The boy nodded. Then he turned and began to paddle into the torrent. Obediently, Daniel followed.
All was chaos again as his canoe pitched violently from side to side, the water swinging it round and forcing him into spiralling circles that threatened to capsize him at any moment. Daniel shouted out, but the boy didn’t turn or seem to realize that he was still there.
Daniel and his new friend both capsized at the same time.
He had no idea how to get out of the canoe, which was rolling over in the lashing water, spray rising above him, his feet caught in the hull, his mouth filling with water as he screamed for help. He saw the boy doing the same, thrashing and struggling, his eyes suddenly locked into his, the grin still on his face.
Death isn’t important. The words came into Daniel’s mind. Death isn’t important at all.
But with a kick, he was out of his canoe, his wet clothes clasping him, a dead weight dragging him down. There was no sign of the boy now and Daniel felt weak, his will to live draining away.
He went under and felt himself being sucked down, the pulling and tugging stronger now. He tried to fight, tried to push himself back up towards the surface, but he had no strength, no sense of purpose and he sank like a stone.
Then, as if a sudden burst of fear had been released to make him save himself, Daniel began to claw his way back up to the surface, knowing that he had to survive. Gasping, he shot out into the sunlight and saw his canoe once more in calm water, the paddle floating nearby.
He went into a fast crawl through the torrent until he found he could stand, and then righted the canoe, emptying out as much water as he could.
Looking at his watch, Daniel guessed his parents’ documentary must be nearing the end, and paddling rather less erratically than before, managed to return the canoe to the boathouse, reach home and creep upstairs before they switched off the TV. Another set of wet clothes, he thought in dismay. Somehow he would have to explain them away.
Lying on his bed, shaking with exhaustion, Daniel eventually slept, and when he woke it was dark. Getting up, he hurried downstairs.
‘Don’t go far,’ shouted his mother. ‘Supper’s nearly ready.’
‘OK, Mum.’ Daniel hardly heard her. The river was calling him again.
He could dimly see the boy’s shadow in the water, his canoe cutting through the silver foam, a jaundiced moon casting lengthy shadows over the weir. He raised a hand in greeting.
Come on in, said the voice in his mind. I’m lonely out here.
Daniel knew what he had to do.
Fighting the boy’s will, Daniel ran back to the garden shed and found a suitable weapon. Then he set off for the boathouse, scrambled inside and dragged the canoe up on to the pontoon next to i
ts broken counterpart.
Daniel began to wield his axe.
He then returned to stare down at the dark and softly shimmering weir, the water like white silk in the moonlight. There was no sign of the boy, but Daniel knew he would never go on the river again.
‘Do you think the boy still haunts the weir, trying to trap people?’ asked Mary.
‘I don’t know.’ Anne’s voice was flat. ‘Daniel doesn’t live there any longer,’ she added quietly. ‘His parents sold the house.’
The others shuddered as they sat round the dying embers of the fire.
‘Put some more wood on,’ said Helen. ‘It’s freezing. And who’s going to tell the next story?’
‘Why don’t you?’ asked Jamie.
‘This is a weird one,’ she began slowly. ‘I don’t expect anyone to believe me.’
2
The Dinosaur Cliff
Last October I went to stay with my aunt on a sheep farm overlooking the cliffs on the Isle of Wight. It was a bleak and remote place, and soon after I arrived I wanted to go home.
I’d only come because I’d had nothing to do at half-term and Mum had said that the Mortons had always wanted to meet me and that my aunt thought I might ‘bring her son Ed out of himself’, whatever that meant.
Ed and his mother – his dad had died when he was a baby – seemed to think that everything on the mainland was fabulous – and everything on the island was awful. Ed was surly, maybe because he had to work so hard. When he wasn’t at school, he had to help with the sheep, but in spite of all their efforts, the farm was still heading for bankruptcy.
Even the elements were against them; the sea was eroding the cliffs and the Mortons were losing land so fast that the experts had told them their home could be uninhabitable in a couple of years’ time. As for the farm – much of it would have disappeared.
After an evening of tramping the land with a largely silent Ed, I gloomily realized my so-called holiday could well be compared with spending a week in an open prison. The trouble was that although he was tall and strong and good-looking, he was a complete pessimist, and although there were definitely problems on the farm, Ed had made up his mind that there was nothing he could do about them.
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark Page 1