Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  Next morning, as I walked up the mountain to the high pastures I saw Da rounding up the sheep with the dogs, muttering to himself in Welsh – but it was Welsh that I didn’t understand. My father was steeped in the old traditions and often boasted that he could trace his family back to an ancient chieftain, Owen Larne, who was reputed to be a black magician. We were proud of being Welsh too, but Da’s ancestors had always been a family joke – an ironic one now as even Owen’s dark magical powers had been no use in helping Da over his financial problems.

  But when I saw him whispering all those dark words I was really concerned. Was he having a complete mental breakdown? Would we have to sell the farm?

  When he got back for tea, however, we were all relieved; my father seemed to have returned to his old ebullient self and was even talking of building up the flock. The vet had still not come up with a diagnosis, but Da simply laughed at our consternation.

  ‘Danger’s over,’ he said and then muttered, ‘for us, anyway.’

  What did he mean, I wondered. And what had given him such unexpected confidence in the future?

  I went to bed early, exhausted by all my speculation, and slept deeply until just after eleven when I was woken by the thundering of hooves. For a while I just lay there, amazed by the sound. The Watsons had horses – but not that many.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I ran to the window and saw what I thought at first was a dark cloud under a crescent moon. But I saw the cloud was on the ground and moving.

  The hunt was dressed in black, heading over the hill towards the Watsons’ land. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing and wondered if the thundering of hooves had woken my parents and Dylan. But no windows had opened, except for mine. Then I saw my father, walking up the valley.

  I moved away from the window, not wanting him to see me, but as I lay back on the bed, the words ‘black hunt’ beat in my mind. There was something on the rim of my memory but I couldn’t connect, couldn’t recall.

  I closed my eyes and then sat up, rigid and shaking. Of course – now I remembered – the legend of the Black Hunt! The riders and their horses belonged to Owen Larne, that vengeful magician and chieftain who lay buried in the hills, reputedly waiting to rise from the dead and ride again against the English. What had my father done?

  I got up and hurried softly downstairs, opened the door and ran to the stable to quieten my pony Scarab. Slipping on his bridle and saddle, I led him on to the sheep-cropped grass at the back of the house. Once we were out of sight, I mounted Scarab and galloped off in pursuit. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I had to do something.

  I felt a curious sense of wild anger as Scarab and I rode up the valley and over the hill. Not exactly the emotion itself but a kind of echo, just a taste of it – and I knew I was in the wake not just of the hunt but my father’s rage as well. Then I crested the hill and reined Scarab in, my heart pounding, my mouth so dry that I could hardly move my tongue.

  The Watsons’ farmhouse lay in the next valley, approached by a long drive from the main road, over a mile away. The hunt were in a semi-circle around the buildings, steam rising from the horses’ nostrils, their flanks gleaming with sweat. The riders were completely still but the master was slowly approaching the front door, his expression impossible to read in the tepid, milky light.

  He knocked loudly, only once, and after what seemed an eternity he knocked again. The sounds seemed to echo over the hills like sharp claps of thunder.

  A horse whinnied, the front door opened and slowly the master entered.

  There was a light in a downstairs window. The encircling horses and riders were deathly still, the night breeze ruffled a mane here and there and an owl circled the farmhouse, calling mournfully.

  After a while the door opened again and the master let himself out, pulling it to behind him. Then he mounted his horse and the Black Hunt began to trot towards me, their hooves pounding the smooth turf as they broke into a gallop.

  They passed me like a breath of fetid wind, the eyes of both horses and riders staring unblinkingly ahead. But it was the master’s face that really appalled me. Chalk white in the wan moonlight, it was nevertheless almost identical to my own father’s.

  I knew I had to go into the cottage. I knew that I had to see for myself what Owen Larne had done. The urge inside me was compelling, and I didn’t hesitate as I dug my heels into Scarab and we cantered down the long, smooth hillside towards the Watsons’ house.

  At the door I paused, and then without knocking I pushed it open.

  The carpeted hallway was well furnished, with pictures on the walls, flowers on a table and a grandfather clock ticking the time away – a far cry from our cluttered space with its smelly wellington boots and overalls.

  I paused, listening to the deep silence, broken rhythmically by the clock. Hardly able to breathe, I walked into the elegant sitting room but there was no one there. Then I opened the kitchen door.

  I gasped and the sensation of suffocation increased as I began to shake, feeling sick and feverish, the sweat running down my face.

  Tim and Rhona Watson were sitting at a scrubbed pine table, staring rigidly into each other’s eyes. There were no marks on either of them but both were dead.

  The silence lengthened in the cold, derelict kitchen and Jamie looked at his watch. It was 3 a.m. and the conversation next door could barely be heard.

  ‘Let’s get some sleep,’ said Laura. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ Ian agreed.

  ‘Sleep’s the last thing I want,’ snapped Megan. ‘Hasn’t anyone got another story?’

  ‘I have,’ replied Jamie slowly. ‘I went to New York last year. My dad’s a psychiatrist and he heard this one in a hospital in Manhattan.’

  9

  Canyon

  One vicious, windy day, Vincent was walking back from school. The street was empty and old papers, cartons and styrofoam were swirling up and down, sometimes blowing into him.

  His parents had originally come from Italy, but now they were running a small deli in New York in what is called a ‘canyon’, one of the dark, narrow side streets that run between the skyscrapers. Boiling hot in summer, dark and cold in winter, the canyons are often subject to freak winds that can knock people down with their fierce, unexpected force.

  Vincent’s family worked incredibly hard but their deli was losing business fast. That autumn more winds than ever seemed to batter their canyon, windows kept blowing out and instead of being replaced were simply boarded up. Pedestrians hurried by and even the office workers in the skyscrapers avoided shopping there, preferring to use the exits that gave them access to the main streets. As a result, the buildings’ side doors were locked and the deli went on losing business.

  The vagrant hunched in a doorway was vaguely familiar. He had long, matted hair and was so begrimed Vincent could hardly make out what colour his skin was.

  Suddenly he remembered seeing his parents give the old man money when he was begging on the steps of the cathedral after Mass, but although he had obviously been desperately poor, the vagrant had not been as dirty and as ragged and decayed as he appeared now.

  But there were so many homeless people in Manhattan that Vincent hardly gave him another glance until the old man called after him.

  Vincent hurried on, battling the wind, knowing the request would be for money.

  ‘Hey there!’

  The old man was walking behind him now, placing a gnarled hand on his shoulder.

  Vincent yelled as he was swung round.

  ‘I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I haven’t even got a dime.’

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  ‘What do you want then?’

  The old man’s hand was still on his shoulder and he couldn’t shake it off. Gazing around him, Vincent saw the canyon was completely empty and his parents’ deli was some fifty metres away. Should he call for help or could he handle the situation himself?
He decided he had to handle it.

  ‘You have to leave,’ the vagrant said.

  ‘Leave?’ Vincent gazed at him as if he was crazy – which he was sure he was.

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll die.’

  The vagrant shuffled away and Vincent shrugged. Yet he remained slightly uneasy. The old man had been begging quietly a few weeks ago. Now he was warning him. Then he dismissed him as just another crazy old guy and hurried back to the deli and his harassed parents.

  Next morning, on the way to school, Vincent again passed the old vagrant, slumped down in his doorway. Directly he caught sight of him, the old man staggered to his feet and began shouting, ‘You’ve got to leave. Got to leave right away. All of you.’

  Curious now, Vincent turned back to him. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re going to fly, man. Fly through the air like a bat out of hell.’

  He didn’t respond to further questioning and Vincent walked on to school, trying to forget the warning. New York was full of crazy people.

  On the way home, the old man was standing by Vincent’s bus stop, as if he had been waiting for him.

  ‘You have to leave now,’ the vagrant yelled as soon as he caught sight of him. ‘You and your folks. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ he demanded. ‘The end of the world?’

  ‘One hell of a big bang,’ said the old man. ‘It’s anniversary time.’

  He trudged away, carrying a couple of battered shopping bags, his filthy black coat drawn around him, his tangled hair falling down his back.

  Vincent shivered in the cold wind. What did he mean, ‘It’s anniversary time’? Anniversary of what? Thoroughly uneasy now, he decided to drop in at the local library, a couple of blocks away. He had always been interested in history – maybe this time he would discover something about his own street. It was unlikely, though, the old man was probably just out of his mind.

  Checking microfilm, Vincent went back ten years, then twenty. But he could find nothing and decided to question the elderly librarian.

  ‘Twenty-Third Street. Did anything ever happen down there, like some disaster or something?’

  ‘You mean the canyon?’ she said instantly.

  He nodded.

  ‘There was one hell of an explosion there – long time ago now. Twenty-five years or thereabouts.’

  Vincent grew cold and tense as the librarian checked out the microfilm. Then she gave a cry of triumph as the headlines came up magnified on the screen. As he read them, Vincent felt a growing alarm.

  MANHATTAN MAYHEM

  BLAST KILLS FORTY-EIGHT

  ASSASSIN BLUNDERS?

  Twenty-Third Street, Manhattan, was today the scene of devastation and carnage as an explosion blew the brownstones apart. Although Police Chief Arnie Subotsky denied rumours that the explosion was meant to kill landlord Rudi Carlson, an anonymous local resident claimed ‘We all hate the guy. Carlson charges high rents without fixing the buildings. Most of the brownstones are running with vermin. I know some residents wanted to wipe him out. Reckon they used too much gelignite and wiped themselves out. The irony is: Carlson survived.’

  Rudi Carlson later commented, ‘I guess someone may have had some kind of grudge against me. But I peg rents down as low as I can. What do they expect? The Waldorf?’

  Then Vincent spotted the date and time of the disaster. 26th November. 8 p.m. He gazed at the screen in growing horror. The anniversary was tonight and he only had ten minutes left. Rising to his feet, his hands shaking, Vincent knew he had to get back to his parents fast.

  Noticing his apprehension, the librarian only grinned. ‘Don’t worry, son. Lightning never strikes twice.’

  Once outside, he soon realized that an unusually fierce wind had arisen. If it was this bad on the main streets then it was going to be much worse in the canyon, and he began to run, desperate to get home.

  But when Vincent reached Twenty-Third Street, the wind was so vicious that not only was the litter flying about but street furniture too. Bent double against its force, he staggered on, narrowly avoiding a rubbish bin and the remains of a street lamp. Flying glass began to fall as the windows of the skyscrapers above him shattered, and grabbing a dustbin lid he struggled towards the deli, lethal slivers raining down on him and splintering on his improvised shield.

  Then Vincent saw his parents running towards him, dodging in and out of doorways, numbed and bemused by the sudden catastrophe. Meanwhile, the glass continued to fall and he was terrified that any moment they would be struck. Already people were staggering around him, their faces gashed and bloodied.

  Vincent glanced up and saw that a nearby building had a concrete awning and he made a dash for its protection, shouting for his parents to join him. Somehow they made it as the wind mounted in strength and the shards of glass flew like darts.

  From their place of safety they watched numbly. Then suddenly the vagrant appeared, ambling through the falling debris as if nothing was happening. Several times Vincent saw him get hit by glass, but he still walked towards them, seemingly impervious, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  ‘That guy’s got a charmed life,’ he shouted to his parents over the wild noise of the wrecking wind, but his father stared at him.

  ‘What guy? I don’t see no one,’ he yelled, puzzled.

  Vincent stared at both of them incredulously. ‘He’s there – on the sidewalk – right in front of us.’

  But his father merely repeated that he couldn’t see anyone.

  ‘Don’t stand there,’ shouted the vagrant. ‘It’ll come down. Get off the street.’

  ‘We have to go,’ yelled Vincent. ‘Like now.’

  But his parents refused to move. ‘This is the safest place, Vince,’ said his mother, clinging to a pillar. ‘You can see that. It’s solid.’

  The vagrant was shouting frantically, his voice drowned by the howling wind. Then Vincent looked up and saw cracks beginning to split the concrete awning apart.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he yelled, somehow dragging his parents out into the canyon, the wind still mounting in force, screaming, tearing and wrenching at the buildings. Glass continued to shower, and the concrete canopy suddenly snapped into two sections, crashing on to the very spot where Vincent and his mother and father had been standing a few seconds before.

  Trying to hold the dustbin lid over his parents’ heads, Vincent spurred them on to run the last few metres to the main street where the wind was gradually dying back. By a miracle they made it.

  Vincent’s father wept quietly in the safety of the subway, knowing the deli would have been destroyed. As his wife comforted him, pointing out how lucky they were to be alive, the rescue services arrived.

  The canyon was now a piled-up mass of glass and chunks of masonry, but Vincent could see the old vagrant standing in the middle of the wreckage, one hand raised in greeting. Vincent waved back in gratitude.

  ‘Don’t you see him now?’ he asked his father, but he didn’t even look up.

  As his family was given temporary accommodation, Vincent repeatedly wondered what had happened to the old man and why his parents denied seeing him.

  Next day, he wandered back to the police barriers at Twenty-Third Street and got into conversation with a young cop. The buildings were being shored up and made safe before extensive repairs could begin.

  ‘You didn’t come across a vagrant?’ he asked and the cop immediately called across a superior.

  ‘What vagrant?’ asked the sergeant. ‘How did he look?’

  Vincent described him in some detail and there was a long, rather suspicious silence.

  ‘We found a body in a basement air duct early this morning, but it had been there for some time – a couple of weeks, maybe more. You say you saw him last night? That’s just not possible.’

  Vincent decided to backtrack and say that he thought he had seen the vagrant but couldn’t really be sure. He was often around the area, he added.

 
‘Sure,’ replied the sergeant. ‘I used to see the guy on the cathedral steps.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vincent said. ‘I saw him there too.’

  A couple of days later, he read a report in the press.

  DEAD VAGRANT IN CANYON BUILDING

  The corpse of a seventy-year-old caucasian male was discovered in the damaged Roebuck Building on Twenty-Third Street, Manhattan. He was found in a basement air duct and is believed to have died of natural causes some weeks before the recent freak winds.

  The strange coincidence is that the corpse of the vagrant was identified last night as Rudi Carlson, the racketeering landlord of many of the old brownstones destroyed in an explosion in the same street twenty-five years ago. The blast killed forty-eight residents and Carlson survived despite the fact that it was rumoured the explosion had been designed to assassinate him alone. Apparently too much gelignite was used. Looks like time finally caught up with this old skinflint property owner, who later went bankrupt and became one of the homeless.

  Vincent cut out the article carefully. Carlson had clearly repented of his former ruthlessness, understanding the despair and loneliness of the poverty-stricken as he begged on the steps of the cathedral. Maybe he had yearned to do some good to one family at least, but perhaps it was only in death that he had been granted a last opportunity to be generous.

  The fire was out now and all the storytellers were as far down in their sleeping bags as they could get. The party next door was over and all they could hear from the other room was the snoring of some of their parents.

  ‘One last story,’ muttered Jamie. ‘Who’s going to tell it?’

  There was a long, unwilling silence.