‘But there’s no one here but us.’ Sam was furious. ‘No one.’ Then he asked in a wobbly voice, ‘Who are you?’
‘Hang on. I’ll be with you.’
The scrabbling and pushing and shoving and grinding of rock against rock continued until Sam said suddenly, ‘Your Uncle Reg is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ replied Andy bleakly.
‘Then who’s that bloke?’
‘I don’t know’
‘It can’t be your Uncle Reg –’
‘No.’
‘Can it?’
Andy didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to think. The idea of another joke faded from his mind. Only Sam played that kind of game. So who was it out there?
He could still hear the rocks being cleared, still hear the occasional cry of pain, but their rescuer wasn’t getting any nearer.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Sam.
‘He’ll get to us.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know.’ But Andy was slowly getting the impression that whoever was out there, shifting the debris and in such great pain, was as much part of their world as the Man in the Moon.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Andy as Sam began to grunt and groan.
‘Trying to get myself out,’ he panted.
‘You’ll only make it worse.’
‘I’ve got to try.’
‘He’ll get to us.’
‘Your uncle isn’t going to get to anyone,’ Sam said with conviction. ‘He’s dead and you know it.’
‘We’re over here!’ yelled Andy.
Then suddenly the voice was nearer, much nearer. ‘All right, lad. Push on that rock there.’
The shadow was hovering over Sam and Andy could feel a blast of cold, dank air.
‘Push!’ said the distorted voice.
Sam gasped, pulled and pushed and then gave a cry of satisfaction. ‘I’m free,’ he whispered, and then bellowed, ‘I’m free!’
‘Keep your voice down, you idiot. You’ll bring more of the roof in.’
Sam looked up fearfully but the shadow had gone. Then he said, ‘My ankle’s painful and my leg’s bleeding. But I can stand.’
‘Aren’t you going to help me out then?’ Andy asked urgently, wondering where his uncle had gone.
‘Maybe I should go and get help,’ said Sam indecisively.
‘And leave me here?’ Andy was outraged.
‘OK.’ Sam sounded slightly doubtful, and when he arrived at his side he sounded even more so. ‘I’ll never shift this lot,’ he said morosely.
‘Try,’ Andy commanded. ‘Try hard.’
Sam was strongly built but had run to fat, and unless he was curious about something he easily gave up. As far as Andy could see he himself was trapped by two large rocks, one over his waist and the other wedged across but not crushing his ankles. Sam strained hard while Andy encouraged him.
‘All right, lads, I’m coming,’ came Uncle Reg’s voice, but he seemed a long way away now, despite the sounds of frantic activity, as if he had moved on to other victims.
But there weren’t any there, thought Andy. At least not this time. What is going on? he wondered. But any thoughts of someone playing a joke had long since faded from his mind. There was only one idiot in this tunnel and that was Sam – and he was a lazy one as well.
‘Push,’ he hissed at him.
‘I am.’
‘Then push harder.’
‘I’m frightened of hurting you,’ gasped Sam. ‘Get stuck in,’ shouted Andy, forgetting his own warnings about a roof fall. ‘Go on – you slob.’
‘I’m not going to –’
‘Push!’
With a last effort, Sam did as he was told and the rock fell away with a dull thud.
‘Now go for the one across my ankles – and be careful. There’s another rock resting against the side of it.’
‘Can’t you pull yourself out?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I could,’ snapped Andy bitterly.
Sam continued to wrestle with the rock until it slowly moved sideways and Andy was free. It was an incredible sensation and he felt heady with relief and elation.
‘Can you stand?’ asked Sam solicitously.
Andy struggled painfully to his feet. ‘Kind of – I feel as if I’m bruised all over.’
‘At least we’re alive.’
‘No thanks to you,’ said Andy sharply.
‘I’ll tell Brownlow it was my fault,’ said Sam with surprising grace. ‘That you just came in to help.’
‘You will?’ Andy stared at him in amazement.
‘I promise.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I was stupid.’
‘You were dead stupid. Well, almost.’
‘All right, lads.’ Uncle Reg’s voice was weaker, more distant, and he coughed in a horrible, bubbling sort of way.
‘We’re OK now,’ yelled Andy and then remembered about the roof. ‘We got free,’ he said more quietly. Then he spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘Is that really you, Uncle Reg? Is it you out there?’
But although they could still hear the sound of rocks being shifted there was no reply.
‘Uncle Reg?’ whispered Andy, his voice breaking. ‘Uncle Reg?’
Sam touched his arm. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you heard him, didn’t you? You heard his voice –’
‘I heard him.’ The roles had reversed and Sam was very much in charge now. ‘Come on, Andy. We’ve got to get out fast.’
Limping, they clambered over the piles of rocks towards the band of light at the entrance to the tunnel.
Then Andy found himself in a grip of iron as Sam grabbed his arm. ‘Look.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind you.’
Sam was staring at something, someone, and when Andy wheeled round he saw his Uncle Reg, only metres away from them, cut and bleeding, obviously badly injured but nevertheless trying single-handedly to pull the rock fall aside. Trapped beneath it, Andy could just make out the body of a man.
‘We’ve got to help him.’
‘No,’ said Sam.
But already Andy had plunged back, stumbling over the debris towards his Uncle Reg.
‘I’ll help you,’ he panted. ‘I’m coming to help you.’ Then he gasped.
He had run right through him.
‘He’s not there,’ he muttered, drawing back.
‘He is,’ said Sam quietly. ‘But he’s not with us.’
‘What are you two boys doing in here? You’re going to be severely punished for this –’ Mr Brownlow was standing on the threshold of the tunnel.
But Andy didn’t care what happened now. He felt a rush of pride. There was no doubt now. His uncle had stayed to the last, trying to rescue his workmates.
‘Did Andy ever go back in there?’ asked Terry.
‘No,’ said Tim. ‘He never went back. And since then, the tunnel’s been pulled down.’
‘Stoke up that fire, someone,’ insisted Martin, and Jane managed to get the wood to crackle again.
‘My cousin met someone else who was trapped in the past,’ said Terry. ‘It was awful. Do you want to hear the story?’
The others nodded fearfully, snuggling back into their sleeping bags, wanting yet not wanting to listen.
7
The Manse
Louise turned over in bed, trying to get the sound out of her head. But when she reluctantly opened her eyes, the baby’s cries were louder and even more insistent. How could they be, she wondered, puzzled. There were no babies here, not in the huge and forbidding manse her parents had rented in Edinburgh, while her father gave a series of lectures at the university.
She got up. Had someone left the television or the radio on? Yawning, Louise padded down the black wooden staircase of the old house. Dour and heavily furnished, it had been home to many generations of church ministers.
N
ow the crying seemed more desperate, so much so that she could hardly bear it, and Louise’s heart went out to the baby who was so miserable and frightened.
Louise had strong maternal feelings, and although she was only twelve she often helped to look after her younger twin brothers while her parents were working. Her mother was teaching part-time while Robbie and Alan went to a nearby nursery and Louise spent a term at primary school. Outgoing and assertive, she had no problem fitting into a new school and had soon got used to the unfamiliar Scottish accents.
Now, as she hurried down the final flight of stairs, the crying suddenly stopped and Louise looked at her watch. 4 a.m. She shivered. Everything in the manse seemed to be black – or dark at best. Most of the furniture was made of heavy mahogany, there were huge framed pictures on the walls: portraits of dead ministers or paintings of highland glens that all seemed to be besieged by violent storms, or at best surmounted by dark clouds.
Dark, damp – the words loomed large in her mind. None of them liked the house and the twins, usually so happy and contented, had been uneasy and rebellious and her parents quarrelling even more than usual. But the building belonged to the university and the rent was so low they felt they were stuck with the manse and its forbidding black paintwork.
As Louise stood fearfully in front of the hall mirror, she noticed that its surface was misted over, which seemed strange on such a cold morning.
Staring into the mirror with creeping unease, she saw the mist slowly evaporating and a young girl, just a few years older than herself, looking out at her imploringly. Then the image faded and the crying began again, this time further away.
For a moment, Louise was more amazed than scared. Could the crying have brought her to the mirror and was it now about to take her somewhere else? It was a weird thought – as if the crying was controlling her – as if she was a servant to its demands.
Servant? That was what the young girl in the mirror had looked like, with her neat hair and simple blouse with its starched collar.
Now the mirror had misted over again and she was left with the sound of crying in her ears, partly overlaid by the sonorous chanting of prayers.
Louise shuddered, her astonishment turning to a heart-thumping fear. Suddenly she felt burdened by a nagging sense of responsibility that wouldn’t go away. Another image swam into her mind – this time of the twins – and Louise felt a painful rush of love for them. They were so small, so helpless – so utterly in her power. She wouldn’t ever let anyone harm them.
Shocked by the strangeness of her thoughts and by the sudden fears they had sparked off, Louise returned to the mirror. She wiped the surface clean and saw the young girl again. This time her lips were moving. At first there was no sound but floods of silent tears were pouring down her cheeks. Her mouth was working and then the words came blurting through, frighteningly loud, but horribly distorted.
‘Help me,’ she pleaded.
Louise knew she had to help her. But how? She looked at her watch and saw with a start that the hands were at exactly the same place as they had been when she had come downstairs. Time had stood still yet so much had happened – and somehow this seemed the most terrifying thing of all.
Then the crying became more insistent, the praying more resonant, more hostile. Slowly, Louise mounted the stairs.
The attics of the manse were no longer used and the narrow passageways and two musty rooms were empty, their bare boards creaking. The grey, dusty window panes looked out over a small dark side street.
Louise had briefly explored the attics with the twins when they first arrived and had found them oppressive and claustrophobic, a shut-away place for servants whose comfort had been ignored.
As she warily approached, the crying grew louder but the prayers were now no more than a barely distinguishable mutter.
Louise paused by the battered blue door, knowing that she must open it but not wanting to, a growing fear over whelming her. She gripped the handle but it was so cold that she gave a little yelp of pain, feeling too weak to open the door, too numb to take her hand away.
The crying increased in intensity and Louise could feel the need of the baby coursing through her. At last she managed to turn the handle, and as the door swung slowly open she heard a terrible choking sound. A young girl sat on a small truckle bed with a baby in her arms, one hand round its throat.
‘Don’t!’ screamed Louise, running towards her, determined to wrest the child away. But all she did was to hit her head on the opposite wall as she fell over the empty bed.
‘Sleepwalking,’ said her mother, applying a cold compress to Louise’s bruised head. She had been woken by a thump and had run upstairs to find her daughter lying dazed on the floor of the bare attic room.
‘She was going to kill the baby,’ Louise said over and over again.
Her parents exchanged glances.
‘The baby?’ muttered her father.
‘It was crying.’ Louise was still confused, not able to explain.
‘Just a bad dream,’ her mother said quietly. ‘Now I’ll get you to bed with some aspirin.’
Louise woke with a splitting headache and dressed slowly, trying to sort out what had happened in the night, recalling the horror of it all. Why had the young girl tried to kill her own child? Why had she pleaded from the mirror? Had she wanted someone to understand – to realize why she had done it? Louise remembered the exchange of glances between her parents, glances that seemed to hold a grim acceptance.
She knew she had to confront them, to make them tell her what they knew.
At first Louise’s parents refused to say anything, but as she persisted, her father gradually began to weaken.
‘It’s just some stupid story that goes with the house,’ he said at last with considerable reluctance.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked him miserably.
Her mother took over. ‘Lots of these old houses have some story to them.’
‘What is it?’
Her mother paused and then began too casually, ‘A young servant girl at the turn of the century became pregnant and when the father refused to marry her she killed the baby – and then herself.’
Louise closed her eyes.
‘It’s just a typical ghost story. You must have heard it all before. I expect –’
‘I’ve never heard it before,’ she said quietly. ‘Never. You shouldn’t keep things from me. It’s much worse to find out.’
There was a long pause. Then her mother began to speak slowly, her voice shaking. ‘I know. And there’s something else –’
‘Not now, Diana,’ snapped her husband. ‘Not when Louise is so upset.’
‘What is it?’ she asked bleakly.
There was another long pause. ‘There’s never a good time, Bill,’ she said quietly. ‘Not for this anyway.’ She gazed into Louise’s eyes and said, ‘Your father and I are splitting up. We – I know it’s sudden but –’
‘Of course we’ll see each other just as much,’ her father broke in, ‘and it won’t make any difference to –’ His words flowed over her as she saw again the young girl’s face, felt her complete despair.
Then her mother said, ‘Perhaps you overheard us talking, darling. That’s why you were dreaming, wasn’t it? You knew we were separating. That’s why we should have spoken to you earlier –’ Her mother continued to speak, but after a while Louise didn’t listen.
She was alone in her room when the knock came.
‘Who is it?’
‘Robbie.’
‘Come in.’
His round, four-year-old face was worried. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Where’s Alan?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘What do you want?’ said Louise dully, lying on her bed, gazing up at the ceiling.
‘We want you to play.’
‘I’m too tired.’
‘Why are you sad?’
Louise knew she couldn’t answer. Her parents hadn�
�t told the twins they were splitting up. Not yet.
‘I want a cuddle,’ said Robbie piteously, the tears starting out of his eyes.
‘Come on then.’
Robbie flung himself on top of her and she put her arms around him. Everything was so awful. What would the twins do when they discovered their father was leaving? They were devoted to him and his departure would break their hearts. How could she stop them being hurt? She held Robbie tighter – and tighter. She must protect him at all costs. Suddenly she felt Robbie struggling to get free.
‘Don’t,’ he said, but it wasn’t his voice, it was the young servant girl’s. Slowly, Louise’s arms dropped away and Robbie leant his head trustingly on her shoulder.
*
‘That servant girl spoke to Louise,’ muttered Megan.
‘You’ve got to be in sympathy with someone to do that,’ said Jamie thoughtfully, burrowing down into his sleeping bag as the fire burnt low. This time there was no more wood left.
‘My father didn’t have much sympathy with the Watsons,’ Megan replied. ‘He doesn’t really care for anyone who isn’t Welsh.’
8
The Black Hunt
We’ve still got our hill farm in Wales. But only just. An English couple, the Watsons, bought the surrounding land and my Da got this obsession they were poisoning his sheep.
I couldn’t think of a single reason why they should do this, but Da claimed they wanted to take over, to drive the Welsh off their land. It’s true that the Watsons had once made us an offer for the farm, but that was before they bought the Molack place.
My father was not himself anyway, because the farm was doing badly and the bank was watching his overdraft closely. He needed scapegoats and the English Watsons were close to hand. And the sheep were dying.
But I had another idea who might be the culprit – Da’s brother, Govan Roberts. Uncle Govan had borne a grudge ever since Da had accidentally knocked him down with a truck, breaking his leg so badly that he had a permanent limp. I knew my father hadn’t meant to do this – that it had been a genuine accident and he was deeply sorry. Govan felt otherwise.
Maybe Da was having a breakdown, but he was quite unshakeable about Tim and Rhona Watson. They were strong personalities, articulate Londoners who made the locals feel patronized, more by clumsiness than intention. When Tim Watson made more money and wanted to increase his acreage for their horses, he again made an offer for our farm, slightly raising the price. Da then decided to declare war, claiming he was going to ‘drive them across the border.’ Mum and I and my younger brother Dylan didn’t believe him, but we worried all the same, knowing he had been pushed to his limits.
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark Page 5