Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  He had to walk on. Dimly, in the fast fading light, he could see the glimmer of black water. The pond. It wouldn’t be long now.

  But the winding path seemed endless, the frost still crackling beneath his feet, his breath in a freezing mist before him.

  Then there was more mist, a dense cloud of it, but this was rising from the Black Pond. Tom walked slowly on, wondering how long Larry would keep him waiting. Would he play a trick on him? Would he steal away, camcorder in hand, leaving him to wait all night?

  Well, he wouldn’t wait, Tom decided. He’d give him fifteen minutes – and that was it. What a fool he’d been not to arrange a time earlier.

  Now, at last, Tom was on the bank of the pond. There was nothing growing on the bare earth and the sides were sheer, reaching into the black water, the darkness of unbearable cold. The mist rose, chilling him to the bone, the vapour reaching into the woods as if it was seeking someone – something.

  He listened carefully but the silence was like damp cotton wool, only occasionally broken by the dripping of moisture from the trees nearest the lake.

  Tom looked at his watch and saw to his acute disappointment he had only been standing on the bank for just over sixty seconds. Was time freezing over as well?

  Was that the whistling again? Or had he just heard a nightjar? It was hard to identify anything in the woolly atmosphere, and as he gazed around him the pond seemed to lose shape and dimension until one minute it was a dark inland sea, the next a small lagoon.

  The rustling began as the chill breeze increased, and at first Tom was convinced that he was listening to a circle of people whispering around the lake, low and intense and silky. Silky? Could that be the reeds moving in the breeze, damp and porous?

  Something moved on the misty surface. A duck? Moorhen? Something smaller darted into the reeds.

  ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain, coming round –’ The whistling began and ended so quickly that Tom couldn’t be sure he had actually heard it, but he was shivering so violently that he couldn’t stop, and clenched his jaw tightly until he bit his tongue.

  He stared down at his watch. It was impossible. It must have stopped. He couldn’t have been here just two minutes – it felt more like an hour. How could he take another thirteen endless minutes?

  Something brown and long flashed past him. A cat? More like a fox. Then it darted into the undergrowth, swallowed up by a mass of sheltering brambles.

  The stillness increased again until Tom could feel the tension tighten like a noose around his neck and he felt acutely aware of being watched. The silky reeds rustled, the hoarfrost glittered and there was a thin shard of ice around the edge of the lake. Three minutes. Three minutes and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-six seconds. Yes, he was definitely being watched. Please let it be Larry, Tom prayed. Please let it be Larry and his camcorder.

  Another minute passed like an hour.

  Then something broke the surface. For a ghastly moment Tom thought it was a beckoning hand and then he realized it was a fish.

  He breathed again.

  The light touch on his shoulder made him scream, a harsh rending sound in the gathering night, but as he began to whimper a voice said, ‘Time’s up.’

  He turned round in enormous relief, gasping, his mouth opening and shutting, the dread withdrawing and a warm feeling bubbling up inside him, as if someone had lit a fire on ice. Tom knew that he had won his bet and Larry’s camcorder evidence would relay his achievement to all his fellow pupils and he would be the hero of the day – the hero of the week.

  But when he gazed into the pale, damply luminous eyes of the figure in front of him, Tom gave a choking cry. It wasn’t Larry. It was Alan Prentice, dripping wet and blue and swollen, his grey bulbous lips emitting words, bubbling words that Tom couldn’t understand. Then they became clear.

  ‘I’m lonely –’

  ‘Time’s up,’ came the brusque interruption.

  Tom whirled round to see Larry approaching, grinning, his camcorder in his hands.

  When he swung back, Alan Prentice was nowhere to be seen, but Tom could still feel the light touch on his shoulder. He always would.

  Sally stoked up the fire. The room had become very chilly, and although there was still the reassuring drone of their parents’ voices next door, most of the storytellers were shivering in their damp sleeping bags.

  She stirred some of the wood; a spark caught and a small bright flame leapt up hopefully.

  ‘Summer heat,’ she muttered. ‘That’s something you don’t associate ghosts with. A friend of mine does though. He told me all about it, but I still don’t know what to think. Maybe it was a mirage – like you see in the desert.’

  4

  Beat

  Patrick saw the policeman silently cycling towards him down the narrow lane by his parents’ new house on the Romney Marsh. He looked curiously dated compared to urban police officers, but maybe things were different out here. Slower. His bike was antiquated, too.

  The figure shimmered in the heat haze and the tarmac on the road shone like a black pool.

  The policeman rode on towards him, his body twisted, distorted, insubstantial, but as he came closer he suddenly pedalled into a patch of haze – and vanished.

  Patrick gaped at the empty space. Could he have witnessed a trick of the light?’

  They had just moved into a house that had been empty for years and was being lovingly refurbished by Patrick’s parents, who were working hard to restore the building to its former seventeenth century elegance. But Patrick didn’t share their enthusiasm. He felt trapped and bored, stranded miles from his friends in London with nothing to do except help with the renovation. That wasn’t his idea of fun at all. Patrick’s passion was football and he had missed a summer training camp to come all the way out here.

  He kicked a stone, pretending it was a ball – and stubbed his toe badly. Hopping about, he cursed, wishing that he had never even heard of this isolated place called the country where nothing ever happened – except for policemen disappearing into a heat haze.

  Several times Patrick had trudged half a mile down to the sea for a swim, but he had found the pebble beaches, the weed-hung shoreline and the floating jellyfish a poor contrast to the Marsham Street Leisure Complex with its clear water and wave machine.

  But the image of the vanishing policeman stayed in Patrick’s mind as he unwillingly helped his father plaster a wall.

  ‘Dad – have you ever seen a mirage?’ he said hesitantly. ‘You know, a vision conjured up by the heat.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen a palace with fountains.’ Tim Ratner was a journalist and had been across the desert several times. ‘And a ski lodge covered in snow.’

  ‘Is it different for everyone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It might be.’ His father slapped on more plaster thoughtfully.

  So why should I see an old-fashioned policeman, Patrick wondered.

  Next afternoon, the heat was even more intense and Patrick wandered down the lane, trying to catch a breath of fresh air, or even just the hint of a breeze. But curiously it seemed even more unbearably hot and the tarmac was more liquid than ever, the silence engulfing him like a warm blanket.

  Then Patrick saw a 1950 Ford Popular, travelling at speed towards him down the lane, its bright green bodywork gleaming in the sunlight. The haze rose – and the vintage car disappeared into a shapeless shimmer.

  He went into the back garden and sat down by the weed-choked pond, trying to think it all out.

  ‘Come on, lazy bones!’ His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Your dad’s back at the plastering.’

  ‘He would be,’ Patrick said rudely, but when he saw the hurt look on her face, he jumped to his feet. ‘He wanted another bag of plaster. I’ll get one from the garage.’ He paused. ‘Mum –’

  ‘Yes?’ she replied warily and he wondered if she thought he was going to ask for time off.

  ‘Have you seen a Ford Popular round here? Kind of vi
ntage and a bright green colour?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m sure I haven’t. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I thought I saw one go by,’ he said lamely.

  ‘Perhaps someone’s into antique cars then,’ she suggested vaguely. ‘Can you get Dad his bag? He’ll be screaming for it soon.’ His mother looked harassed. ‘You’re not finding it too boring down here?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I mean – without your friends and the football and –’ Her voice tailed away and he saw she was looking upset again.

  Patrick took pity on her at once. ‘Of course not. I’m enjoying helping.’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Oh well, it’s only for another few days. Then we’ll be back in London.’

  As he got up, Patrick hoped his mother hadn’t noticed his look of joy.

  The garage had been half cleared by his father and was strewn with a mass of old tools and gardening equipment. Patrick idly ran his eyes over the stuff, remembering his mother saying, ‘It’s like a time warp down there. Nothing’s been touched for years.’

  At the very back, his father had taken down a pile of oil drums and just beyond them he could see handlebars. They looked old. But maybe the bike could be made to work. If he had wheels, however ancient, then his isolation wouldn’t be so great.

  He lugged the heavy metal frame from its cobwebbed retreat and dragged it into the light, sweating profusely, and then realized with a pang of disappointment that he was gazing down at a rusty wreck. But the bike’s condition wasn’t just due to the passage of time. Something had hit it hard. The handlebars were back-to-front and the crossbar and chain guard were heavily dented.

  Patrick left the battered bike where it was, picked up the heavy sack and threw it across his shoulder, staggering back to the house, his mind in overdrive.

  The heat intensified to such an extent that halfway through the oppressive afternoon his father paused and said, ‘I’m going to have a wash and then go down to the beach. Just for an hour. You coming?’

  ‘OK, Dad.’ Patrick thought of the scummy weed and burning pebbles. But at least the sea would be cool.

  Mum joined them, bringing some bottled water and chocolate biscuits which immediately began to melt. He enjoyed the picnic though. At least the smell of paint and plaster and brick dust was out of his nostrils. But as they drove back the heat rose, and Patrick could see the tarmac melting again.

  ‘This is awful,’ said Mum.

  ‘We should be grateful,’ muttered Dad. ‘Look at last summer. It never stopped raining.’

  The Ford Popular swung out of their own garage, its bright green bodywork shimmering as it roared straight towards them. The car filled the entire lane – and so did theirs. Patrick yelled a warning and ducked down in the back seat, but nothing happened. There was no impact. Just his father’s gentle pressure on the brakes.

  ‘You all right, old son?’ His father was all concern as he turned round and gazed at him.

  ‘You’re as white as a sheet,’ said his mother.

  ‘I thought – I thought we were going to hit something.’

  ‘The road’s empty,’ she replied blankly.

  ‘Must have been a mirage.’ Patrick’s father smiled with insider information. ‘We were talking about that earlier. This damned heat haze –’

  By five-thirty it was still sweltering and Patrick couldn’t bear to stay in the house – it was too sticky. But outside seemed worse. Nevertheless, he decided to take a walk down to the old garage. It would be cool in there and besides, he wanted to look at the bicycle again. Could it have been the policeman’s? Could the bike have been hidden behind the oil drums? Had it been hit by the green Ford Popular? Patrick’s imagination soared until he calmed down. If a local copper had been knocked down and killed then the bike would have been taken away as evidence. Not hidden away in a garage.

  Then he saw someone moving through the heat haze. Someone on a bike.

  Patrick watched the figure anxiously, keeping an eye on the garage behind him, but there was no sign of the green Ford Popular.

  The distorted shape of the cyclist took substance and Patrick saw an old farm labourer emerging from the haze. He had seen him yesterday, slowly pedalling past the house, and had mentally dismissed him as part of the landscape. Now he wanted to talk.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The old man dismounted, casting a rheumy eye over Patrick but saying nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’

  There was still no response.

  ‘I was wondering if you’ve always lived round here –’

  He nodded reluctantly.

  ‘And if you knew whether a green Ford Popular was ever kept in that garage –’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Now he was suspicious.

  ‘Did it knock down a policeman?’ Patrick persisted.

  ‘A policeman?’ The old man’s voice was hoarse and he looked away.

  ‘I read somewhere – in the library – that there was an accident,’ Patrick improvised quickly.

  ‘Village bobby disappeared,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘Like as if he was spirited away. Regular mystery it was. Can’t say I saw the car though.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Long way back. Fifties, maybe. When I was a young man. PC Dorkins. Went out on his bike – and never seen again.’ ‘Did they find the bike?’

  ‘Nor his body neither.’ The old man made eye contact for the first time. ‘What are you up to then? Solving old mysteries, are you?’ He cackled harshly and began to pedal slowly on. ‘Going to find Dorkins? Can’t be much of him left now.’

  As he rounded the bend, Patrick went back indoors.

  That night he dreamt of the Ford Popular. He was sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for someone, but when the door opened he could only feel heat and see a hazy indefinable figure that smelt of melting tarmac. The ignition was switched on, the choke pulled out and the starter button pushed. The engine coughed unwillingly and the hazy driver backed the Ford out of the garage. Patrick could see nothing but a wall of heat as the car swept down the lane. He knew they were going too fast. Far too fast. The dream repeated itself again and again until Patrick woke up sweating, his whole body tense with fright.

  *

  The next day was just as unbearably hot and Patrick, nursing a bad headache, swopped allegiances, helping his mother paint the kitchen. At about eleven they took a break and went into the garden, where his father joined them for home-made lemonade under the old apple tree. But because his parents spoke of nothing but the house and their long list of planned improvements, Patrick began to get restless, needing to get away from the soporific sound of their voices. He wanted to cool his pounding head and try to make sense of his dream.

  ‘Where are you going?’ his father asked as Patrick stood up.

  ‘Thought I’d take a look in the garage.’

  ‘There’s nothing in there.’

  ‘I found an old bike. Thought I’d try to fix it up.’

  ‘That’s a wreck –’

  ‘Still –’

  ‘Well, you’ve got five minutes. We’ve got to get the undercoat on today.’

  With a barely controlled sigh, Patrick walked out of the side gate.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said his mother softly.

  His father muttered something he couldn’t hear.

  The haze on the slippery road was as intense as ever and the silence was total. Then Patrick heard the clanking sound of a bicycle approaching.

  At first he thought – he hoped – he was going to see the now familiar figure of the old labourer, but to his horror it was the policeman, cycling very fast, his helmet at an angle, his forehead beaded with sweat, gripping the handlebars tightly, his feet pounding the pedals. He was looking ahead intently as the green Ford Popular came out of the haze, filling the road, driving at high speed.

  *

  The impact was tremendous and Patrick looked away. But the helmet rolled past his feet and
he turned back to see the policeman lying bloodied on the hot tarmac, the Ford with its front wheels and bonnet covered in blood. Then the sound became distorted and faded out discordantly, like a faulty cassette.

  Silently, two men got out, shadowed silver in the heat, and began to drag the policeman towards the back garden and out of sight. One of them returned and started the engine, backing the car into the garage again while the other came for the bike. It was all over in seconds, their bodies losing substance, becoming transparent, fading away to mist and heat and melting road. But a little later, as he stood there feeling unable to move, Patrick heard the clinking sound of a spade on hard, sunbaked earth.

  Patrick returned to his parents who were still sitting under the apple tree.

  ‘We should dig behind the garage,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded his father, staring at him in amazement.

  ‘You’re sweating, dear,’ commented his mother. ‘You’ve had too much sun.’

  ‘No,’ replied Patrick irritably. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He went over to the wall of the house and grabbed the pickaxe. ‘This could take a bit of time,’ he said.

  No one asked any questions and there was a long silence as the others thought about what Patrick might have found. Then Jane hurriedly pulled a small globe out of her rucksack.

  ‘This is my dearest possession,’ she said. ‘The opposite of summer heat. Winter snow – and ice.’

  There were a few murmurs of protest, but Jane put her globe carefully away and began to explain.

  5

  The Snowman

  It all began one winter’s afternoon, when I was doing my homework. On my bedroom desk was the globe. If I tipped it up, the snow inside fell gently on to a miniature snowman. It was the last present from my sister Sue who had drowned a couple of years earlier, falling through the ice while skating on a local pond.

  I loved my globe and never tired of watching the snow fall on the smiling snowman, so you can imagine my amazement when I picked up Sue’s gift and saw the snowman was no longer there. I just couldn’t believe what was happening.