by Anthony Ergo
I hang up. What am I supposed to do now? I'll ring back and leave a message telling him to get me out of here. But something stops me as I start to redial the number. I couldn't trust Blake less if he wore an eye-patch and had a hook for a hand. But what if calling him was what he wanted me to do? I'm sure that's what he expected me to do. So many things don't ring true about this whole experience. It feels like I'm being set up.
Taking some courage from my anger, I steel myself and walk back into the kitchen where the open fridge door illuminates the surrounding floor. I hold my breath as I lean down to examine one of the eyeballs. It's not an eye, at least not a real one. They're just slimy balls made to look like eyes. My imagination has done the rest. I grab the plate from the fridge and pull off the cellophane, ready for whatever it might be concealing. It's a freshly-made ham and mustard sandwich on granary bread; my favourite. I take it through to the bar and eat to the sounds of the sixties.
+ + +
It's 1:01am. I've made it through the Witching Hour; the hour after midnight when everything spooky is at its most menacing, according to the superstitious like me. For the last couple of hours I've sat in the bar listening to old music, flicking through album covers on a jukebox with a collection too old even for Dad's taste. Nothing has happened since the eyeball incident and my nerves have finally settled down. It's amazing how much energy you use being frightened and now I'm truly knackered. I consider trying to sleep in the bar, but all the seating has been stripped of its padded cushioned lining. Blake's letter mentioned a guest room. Was it going to be another set-up? He hadn't lied about the food he'd organised, which was really nice. Maybe I should take a look upstairs?
A shadeless bulb lights up the bare wooden stairs which creak as I step on each one. I pull the small knife from my bag and hold it out like a weapon; except that it's not a weapon at all. It would struggle to cut through warm butter. An icy draught slides down from the dark landing, which seems to be hiding secrets and dangers. I feel a sudden urge to break the silence.
"Hello?" I call out, to no response. "Sasha, stop being silly," I tell myself.
What's the first sign of madness? Talking to yourself. And the second sign? Answering back. I'm being ridiculous. It's not like I've never spent a night alone before, with Dad out at work. Three closed doors at the top of the landing fail to indicate which one leads to the guest room. Always work left to right, or clockwise. Never anti-clockwise, that's bad luck. In fact, never do anti-anything. I twist the handle of the left hand door and ease it open.
It's a large, bare room, with peeling wallpaper hanging from the walls and a large window which overlooks the front of the inn. When I dare to peek out through the grimy net curtains I'm relieved not to see any glowing red eyes across the road. I leave the room to try the second door, the one in the middle of the landing. It's a bathroom, tiled from floor to ceiling. A shower curtain is drawn across the bath and one of the sink taps drips incessantly. Call me obsessive-compulsive, but I can't tolerate the sound of a dripping tap all night. I twist it off as tightly as I can with both hands, then close the door behind me, hoping that I won't need the toilet anytime soon.
The last room is the guest room, if you can call it that. A dank smell suggests that the room hasn't been aired properly for years. Blake has shown some consideration in preparing a camp bed with clean sheets. The only other décor consists of an old wire hanger resting on a nail in the wall. When I try to pull the curtains closed I realise that they're not wide enough for the window.
"What a dump," I say out loud, still talking to myself.
With the jukebox playing the reassuring old music in the bar downstairs, the freshly prepared camp bed starts to look appealing. I feel much better having inspected the whole of the inn and so with the door propped open to catch the landing light, I slump onto the bed. Every sound, every creak of the floorboards and every rattling window has a menacing tone. I focus on the jukebox over the other noises.
The last twenty four hours have felt like a long dream; one that has deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in my own bed and none of this would have happened. To the sound of a woman singing a country song, something sexist about standing by your man, I fall asleep.
+ + +
I wake when I feel a pressure. It comes from the foot of the bed, as if someone has carefully sat down without wanting to disturb me. It's so slight it's almost nothing, barely enough to wake me from my half-sleep. It reminds me of something Mum would do. I've never been good at getting out of bed, but Mum was always so gentle in the way she would perch on the end of the bed and softly wake me. But I'm not at home; I'm in a cold, empty building. I peer down to the foot of my bed, confused to see nothing there.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It's 6.30am. The first light of day has started to leak through the gap in the curtains. The stupid tap woke me up. I walk to the bathroom, still half asleep, determined to take my snappiness out on the tap. That's when I realise that the jukebox has stopped playing. Maybe it wasn't the dripping tap that woke me up, but the music stopping? Also, the landing light is now off. Didn't I leave it on? I flick the switch at the top of the stairs. Nothing. The electricity must be out. In an hour and a half I'll be out of this place, but that tap is still going to get it.
When I open the bathroom door the tap stops dripping. Or was it dripping at all? I stand in the bathroom rubbing the numb side of my face which I've been lying on. I don't know why, but something attracts me to the shower curtain. I have a burning impulse to rip it back. When I do, I immediately regret it. Two words are scrawled on the white tiled walls.
Words which look like they are written in blood. . .
Chapter 8
Tuesday 17 September 7:57am
I wait tensely on the road outside the Coach House Inn as the morning sun rises. The old building doesn't look any less sinister in daylight. It gives me a cold, creeping fear that is becoming my constant companion. With no signal on my mobile, I decide to stop the next car that passes and ask for help. But the next car that comes by is the familiar black Mercedes 4x4, exactly at 8am. Ludvig, with his icy blue eyes now covered by sunglasses, steps out and opens the rear door without so much as looking at me. Menzies Blake is sitting on the back seat, immaculately dressed in a pin-striped charcoal suit.
"Glad to see you made it, Miss Hunter."
"Don't give me all that nice to see you crap." I throw my bag onto the seat and slam the door shut behind me. "Why the hell did you leave me at this rat-hole?"
Blake smiles his irritatingly oily smile before nodding to Ludvig to pull off.
"The Coach House Inn was a fine hostelry, in its day. Since it was acquired by The Agency it has, regrettably, fallen into disrepair."
"Yeah, right. So all the stuff that happened last night was a set-up?"
"I like to think of it more as a test. A test of nerve. I'm afraid it's standard procedure."
Blake's reply is delivered instantly and dead-pan. I can't believe he's admitting it all so calmly.
"We needed to see if you are ready to be brought to The Agency. We wanted to make sure you were not easily, how can I put it, "spooked". Hidden cameras monitored your every move. You were never in danger, Miss Hunter."
If I was angry before, I'm raging now. While my dad is lying in a hospital bed, I've spent the night in a fake haunted house.
"So you're telling me that nothing from last night was real?"
Blake smiles and shakes his head.
"What about the growling noises and the glowing red eyes in the bushes?"
"Audio-visual effects."
So the stupid bunch of keys was a delaying tactic. I knew it.
"And the eyeballs?"
"Film props."
"I don't believe it. So I suppose the dripping tap… "
"Remotely operated," Blake says, finishing my sentence. "That was my idea," he adds with a sense of pride.
"Well, the writing in blood looked fak
e to me."
"Sorry?"
Blake's expression is one of genuine surprise.
"You know, the writing on the bathroom wall. Fake blood, was it?"
He stares at me for several seconds, before forcing a laugh. I'm not sure if it's a mocking laugh or a disbelieving one since he's capable of either.
"Oh, erm, yes, of course. Anyway, enough of all that. You must be hungry? Let's get to HQ and arrange breakfast. Please fasten your seatbelt."
Blake sidestepped the question and changed the subject too quickly, anyone could see that. The writing on the wall is news to him. Maybe not everything from last night was part of his test. As I fasten my seatbelt I take the chance to sneak a glimpse at the hangman game. The writing at the top of the paper confirms my deepest fears. It's exactly the same as what was written on the bathroom wall of The Coach House Inn: Play or Die.
The ghost is still trying to communicate with me. A head has been drawn on the hangman game despite the fact I've not had a guess. Now I know why dad told me not to look at it. I'm playing the game whether I like it or not. I have to find Gordon, and fast.
+ + +
Ludvig steers the 4x4 off the main road and along a thin, winding forest path. I only know we're at The Agency HQ when the car pulls up outside a military-style gated entrance. A large warning sign reads "Restricted Area — No Trespassing". What secrets does this place hold? Beyond the thickly barred gates the tree-lined path meanders off into the distance.
Ludvig lowers his window and taps a code into a keypad, the gates rolling open in response. I stare out of the passenger window as the track opens up to reveal a solitary building; a very grand but dilapidated old mansion. It looms several stories in height with long, thin windows; designed more for looking out than in.
"Welcome to The Agency HQ," says Blake, making a flourishing gesture with his hands like a bad magician.
If I thought the Coach House Inn looked spooky, it's nothing compared to this place. It's like a blueprint for a haunted mansion in a horror film.
"You're telling me I have to sleep here?"
"Yes, just fantastic isn't it? We're lucky to have such a beautiful old building for our headquarters. It's a Sixteenth Century Grade 1 listed mansion, left to us in the will of a former client."
It may have been beautiful once but this place has suffered the ravages of time and neglect. Climbing ivy and thick weeds cover most of the grey stone walls. Overgrown grassed banks shoulder a mossy pond within which sits a sculptured fountain, its marble column turned green. The wind wrestles control of the jets of water and the spray, instead of going straight up in the air, flies crazily to one side like an old man's comb-over.
A lone magpie pecks at the ground. I look around, desperately trying to find the magpie's partner. "One for sorrow, two for joy," as the saying goes. Frustratingly, I can't see another. I cast my eyes up the lopsided stone stairway, which spills down from a large oak door like lava. Above the lintel a foreboding arch has several Latin words etched into the stone.
"Ah, you're admiring the grand entrance?"
Admiring isn't exactly the word I'd use.
"The Latin inscription means “The Past is entombed in the Present”. It's very appropriate for the work we do. Now, you'll need this Visitor Pass so everyone knows you're with me."
Blake clips the pass to the outside of my black jacket and frowns in confusion when he realises I'm wearing it inside out. I snap it off and shove it in my pocket, casting him a fiery glance. By his expression I know my eyes have their crimson glint to them.
"Our headquarters have several vacant rooms. You're on the first floor, room number thirteen."
"Thirteen? You're joking, right? Don't you have any other rooms I can use?"
Blake ignores my request.
"You'll find breakfast in the kitchen, at the end of the corridor. I'll brief you further once you've eaten. Don't wander inside the house, it's very easy to get lost in there. Oh, and please try not to bother the other Agents."
There is only one person I want to bother: Gordon. I wonder when I'll meet him, and what he looks like.
"You should drop your bag in your room, then hurry if you're to catch some breakfast."
Blake nods to Ludvig, who opens the passenger door and ushers me out of the car.
"Feel free to freshen up after breakfast," says Blake. "I'll call for you at your room at eleven. Any questions?"
"When can I go and see Dad?"
Blake pulls out a mobile phone.
"I'll get an update for you straightaway."
That wasn't the question I asked, but before I can object Ludvig shuts the door, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the black tinted window. As he straightens up, Ludvig's jacket falls open, revealing his white shirt underneath. But I notice something other than his shirt: a holster with a gun strapped inside. He casually pulls the jacket across his waist and fastens a button. I glance up at him as he stares into the distance over my head, waiting for me to walk off. Did he mean for me to see the gun, like it was a warning?
"Hey Ludvig, your shoelace is undone."
He takes the bait and looks down. So you can hear me. I feel his eyes following me as I walk up the stone steps.
The mansion's front door, with its creepy lion-face knocker, creeks open with the gentlest of touches; as though opened by an invisible butler. A dimly lit corridor leads to a brighter room at the end which must be the kitchen. Ahead, a non-too-inviting staircase leads to the first floor, its bare wooden steps covered by a well-worn runner carpet, sagging like a dog's tongue.
As I climb the stairs and turn a corner, I'm drawn to the faces of the portraits whose eyes seem to follow me. Why do people in old paintings look so spooky? I open the door of room number thirteen and step into an antique room. Everything feels old: the writing desk, the four-poster bed, the giant wardrobe. Fancy-framed oil paintings do nothing to liven up the discoloured walls. The en-suite bathroom looks like it's not been used, or cleaned, for years. I make a half-hearted attempt to unpack my bag, placing the picture of Mum and Dad on the bedside table. I'll only stay here long enough to find Gordon, I reassure myself. Besides, anything has to be better than last night at The Coach House Inn.
I walk downstairs to the kitchen. Thankfully, it's a much brighter room compared to the rest of the mansion. A microwave, dishwasher and other modern appliances create a homely feel. It's strange to think I'm at Dad's place of work where he eats and socialises with colleagues.
A young blonde woman sits alone at a table; I feel her eyes boring into my back as I walk to the far end of the kitchen. A folded card with my name written on it sits next to a bowl of Cornflakes and a glass of fresh orange juice. The blonde woman flicks through the pages of a thick document, not bothering to look up or acknowledge me. I take a seat at the end of the table, far enough away to avoid disturbing her. As I start munching my way through the Cornflakes I hear a voice.
"Can you pass me the sugar, please?"
"Sorry?"
My apology is an instinctive response to buy a few seconds longer to take in the details. The woman, dressed in a smart suit, has short, choppy blonde hair, which shimmers like one of those girls in a shampoo commercial. Each strand seems like it's meant to be the exact length it is. I also notice her delicate nose beneath the black-rimmed designer glasses, and her full lips ─ she is striking without trying to be. It's kind of intimidating for a girl to be in the presence of someone so naturally beautiful. And it doesn't help that she has the domineering air of a stern head teacher.
"The sugar, please?"
"Oh, yes, sure."
I pick up the sugar bowl and pass it to her outstretched hand. I can't help but stare as she tips four heaped spoons into her mug, raising the level of the coffee above the rim and sending dark splashes onto the table.
"Had a good look, have you?" says the blonde woman, her coffee mug poised near her mouth. She puts it down and throws me a sideways glare. I didn't realise I'd been staring a
t her for so long.
"Didn't anyone tell you not to bother the Agents?"
I feel like I've been given a telling off by a teacher. I quicken my spoon-to-mouth action, determined to finish off the cereal and leave as soon as possible.
"I'm sorry," says the woman, flipping her document closed and casting a less harsh expression. "You're a visitor, right?"
She removes her glasses and folds them to reveal the young face of a woman in her early twenties.
"I'm Zara."
It's the same name that popped up on Aaron's mobile phone at the hospital. That's more than just a coincidence. She takes a sip of coffee with the hint of a slurp.
"I know, four spoonfuls is way too much, but I need a sugar fix if I'm going to get all this work done. Nobody is perfect, eh?"
"Tell me about it," I reply, which makes her smile. "I'm about as far from perfection as you can get."
I smile back at her, grateful for the reality of someone who likes her coffee sugary. Zara takes another sip and sighs pleasantly at the taste.
"So, what brings you here? We don't get many visitors at The Agency. At least, not many who make it beyond The Coach House."
I pause to think of what to say. Don't trust anyone, I tell myself, repeating Dad's mantra. "I'm here with Menzies Blake."
"Really?" Zara seems surprised. "Friends in high places, eh? Talk of the Devil, here comes Blake now…"
Zara juts her chin torward the door and I twist in my seat expecting to see him. Strangely, the door is closed and nobody is there. I turn back to Zara with a confused expression.
"Keep looking," she says, having resumed reading.
Five seconds pass, then the door bursts open and Menzies Blake walks in. How bizarre? How could Zara possibly know that Menzies Blake was on his way here? As he enters he scans the room left to right then fakes a surprised expression when he catches sight of me.
"I've been looking for you everywhere, Miss Hunter."
"Really? You told me to come here."