"I'm sorry," I interrupted. "But I can't see how the lives of a family that lived here years ago can possible affect Gillian now. Surely it's long past, ancient history."
Father hammered in the last staple and pointed with the hammer. "See that well?"
"Of course."
"Well, according to the builder it's known locally as Bastard Well. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions." He gathered up his tools. "Come up to the studio. I want to show you something."
It was silent in the house. Barney was asleep outside the bedroom door. He grumbled softly as we tiptoed past him, but didn't wake. Once in the studio my father shut the door and switched on the light. I went across to the window and looked out. The sun had dropped behind the trees completely now and, although it was still light enough to see most of the garden, dark pockets of shadow were forming in the corners and gradually creeping across from the meadow. I could barely make out the well at all.
Father spread out several of Gillian's paintings on the worktable at the far side of the room. "Look at these, Phillip, and give me your thoughts on them."
We went through them one at a time.
"This one was painted before we moved in here," he said.
"I know. This is one of the paintings she showed me that time at the Savoy."
"Well compare it to this one, painted a month after we arrived here."
The painting seemed typical of Gillian's style, a woodland setting, bright colours, the same stylised animals. There was a difference though between the two paintings. It was a subtle difference and, viewed singly, it might not even be noticed. In the first painting the animals seemed carefree and joyful, in the second their faces had a more guarded aspect, almost furtive, as if they were watching out for something. I said as much to my father.
"This one and the one on the drawing board represent her latest work," he said, indicating the final painting.
The contrast between the last one on the table and the earlier work was startling. Gillian's style was still evident, but the subject matter was much darker. In this picture the animals carried expressions of plain fear as they peeked out from behind rocks and trees. In the foreground of the picture was the long grass and wild flowers of a meadow, and something in the meadow was the object of the animals' terror.
"Is this the meadow at the end of the garden?"
"Yes it is. There's the well." He pointed to something in the picture.
I hadn't noticed it at first, it was only lightly painted in, almost a sketch, and I had been so absorbed by the expressions on the animals' faces that I had overlooked it completely. But now, looking carefully at the animals Gillian had painted, and following their eye-lines, it was clear it was the well that was the focus of the animals' fear.
I went over to the drawing board and looked at the latest painting. This was the most disturbing picture of all. It depicted the view from the studio window, but her choice of colour, and the looser style had shortened perspective. The wood now loomed large in the background, casting shadows over the meadow, giving the meadow itself a menacing aspect, and this time the well was much more prominent. There were no animals to be seen in the picture, but there was something. Gillian had painted the long grass of the meadow in such a way that it seemed to ripple with life, as if there were things moving through the long stems, and at the well there was just the hint of a figure, pale, small and ill-defined.
I stood back from the painting to see if distance, as it sometimes does, might give me a more accurate impression of the figure by the well, but it remained just as elusive.
The paintings represented a gradual darkening of Gillian's mood that was echoed by the decline in her physical appearance.
"Have you spoken to her doctor about this?"
"Blake, in the village, but he's useless. Just gave me some nonsense about hormonal changes and how Gillian should try to rest as much as possible."
"And you don't think that's the answer, that all this might be some kind of psychological problem brought about by stress?"
"I've considered it," Father said. "It certainly has all the hallmarks of one. God knows this hasn't been an easy time for us, but I don't know. She's been saying lately that she's hearing things, seeing things."
"And you haven't?"
"Not a damned thing." He sighed. "But I'm so damned tired at the moment. It is difficult to sleep, she gets so restless at night. Then there's the fear for the baby, all this worry and stress can't be good for it."
I tried to think of an answer, or at least a way forward. "What things has Gillian heard, or seen?"
"They're crying out for their mother," Gillian spoke from the doorway. We had been so engrossed in the paintings and our conversation we hadn't heard the door open. She looked terrible. Her skin was stretched tight across the bones of her face, and her eyes were red from crying. The dog stood at her side, tongue lolling loosely from its mouth. She fondled its ears absently as she stood there.
"You should be lying down," my father said.
"If Phillip is staying the night he's going to need a meal. I'll go and prepare it." Her manner was cool and controlled, her eyes a lifeless reflection of what they once were. She turned from the doorway and made her way downstairs.
"Did you have plans to go back tonight?" Father said.
"I'll stay, if it's convenient."
"So long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch. To be quite honest I'd welcome the company."
After dinner Gillian excused herself and went to bed. Father and I talked for a while, mainly about business, mapping out a plan for the future. We studiously avoided talk of darker matters. At about ten, Father yawned and said he was going to turn in. He provided me with blankets and pillows, and I made up a bed on the couch.
I lay there listening to the mantel clock chime away the hours, a thousand thoughts running through my head. Being handed control of Scotney's was enough to occupy my mind, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Gillian's paintings and that shadowy figure by the well.
I finally drifted off to sleep at about two in the morning only to be awakened by Barney growling at the kitchen door. I pushed back the covers and, bleary eyed, wandered through to see what was disturbing him. I switched on the light. Gillian was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold in front of her. She shielded her eyes with her hand as the light went on. "I'm sorry, Phillip, I didn't mean to wake you," she said.
The dog was pacing backwards and forwards at the back door, stopping at every turn to growl at something outside. "I didn't know you were up," I said. "I heard Barney growling. That's what woke me. Can't you sleep?"
She shook her head and took a cigarette from a packet on the table. She lit it and blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling. "You probably think I'm losing my mind," she said calmly. "I heard what you were saying to Russell earlier in the studio."
I sat down at the table. "I think nothing of the kind. I do think you're under a lot of stress though."
She ran her hand through her hair. "We should never have bought this place. If I had known at the time..." She stopped in mid-sentence and looked round at the back door.
"What is it?"
She hushed me. "Listen."
From the other side of the door came a faint sound, as if something was scratching against the wood. Barney growled again, pushing his nose into the gap that ran along the bottom of the door. He barked once.
Then, from the other side of the door came a sound that sent fingers of ice crawling through me. It was a kind of high pitched, chittering sound, an unearthly, feral sound.
"What the hell was that?" I said, and looked to Gillian. She was gripping the edge of the table, her face drained of all colour, panic in her eyes. "They want their mother," she said, the same words she had uttered in the studio earlier.
"What do you mean?"
She didn't reply but got to her feet and walked to the door. Before I could stop her she had unlocked the door and lifted the catch. From the ga
rden, the chittering sound rose in volume as other voices were added to the first, building towards a crescendo of demented babble. It was a horrible sound. I leaped from my seat, grabbed Gillian by the arm and pulled her away from the door. She spun round, her hand flailing out, catching me a stinging blow on the cheek. "I have to go to them," she shouted, trying to push me away. "You don't understand."
The dog started to bark furiously and threw itself against the door. Before I could grab the handle, the door opened a crack and the dog was through the gap. It was all I could do to stop Gillian following. At that moment my father appeared in the doorway, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, a look of complete bewilderment on his face. I pushed Gillian into his arms. "Hold on to her!" I shouted over the cacophony of sound.
He grabbed her around the waist and, although she struggled, managed to restrain her. I turned back to the door and to my horror saw it was opening. A small, pink, hairless, claw-like hand gripped the edge of the door and was slowly pulling it wide. I hurled myself across the kitchen and made a grab for the handle, slamming the door shut.
Outside I could hear the dog barking and snapping. I went to the window but could see nothing but blurred shapes and movement. I ran from the kitchen and took the stairs three at a time. From the studio window I had a clear view of the garden, lit by an almost full moon.
The long grass of the meadow was alive with movement. I could see Barney's great Alsatian head turning this way and that, jaws snapping as small, pale shapes struck out at him. The chittering was an incessant, maddening clamour. The dog yelped as first one and then another of, what I can only call, the creatures leapt on his back. Within seconds he was overcome as more and more of them emerged from the long grass, weighing him down until he was buried under a writhing heap of obscene pale pink, almost white, bodies. Then the chittering stopped and the silence was deafening. The moon passed behind a cloud, shrouding the garden in darkness. When it re-emerged there was no sign of the dog, but the long grass was rippling horribly as the creatures made their way back to the well.
"What's happening?" my father said from the doorway. Gillian was still in his arms, tears pouring down her cheeks, a look of wretchedness in her eyes.
I turned to him. "I think it's over," I said, and looked back to the garden.
The night was silent, the long grass of the meadow now still and unmoving. We spent the rest of the night together, huddled on the studio floor, unashamedly afraid.
In the morning my father and I managed to persuade Gillian to remain in the house while we ventured into the garden. The remains of poor Barney were a sad sight and we buried them in the corner of the meadow away from the trees. He had been attacked and killed by something with animal ferocity.
We approached the well with a great deal of trepidation. Although neither of us had been able to see clearly what had emerged from it, we now knew that something lived in the well, and in fact, from what we had seen, and heard, there were several of the creatures.
My father was the first to peer into the depths. He turned to me and half shrugged as all he could see was oily black water at the bottom. As he looked at me, and we discussed what action to take, we both heard it. Once again it was that awful chittering noise, almost a squeal, from numerous mouths, merging in its intensity, into one noise.
"We must seal the well," I shouted.
"Concrete," my father said. "Help me with the mixer."
I was loath to leave the mouth of the well uncovered. I feared the creatures would escape. We piled as many of the fence posts as we could manage onto the lip of the well opening, and for good measure covered it with the barbed wire.
The mixing of the cement and the operation of the mixer took longer than either of us had anticipated. By the time we returned to the well, struggling with the heavy equipment over the grass, we were horrified at what we saw. The barbed wire had been pushed off and lay useless on the ground. Many of the fencing posts too had been removed, and there remained just a handful covering the top of the well.
From the well the noise was incessant, and as we watched another fence post fell to the ground. Movement then was quick, and as we ran to the well a small shape crept out into the sunlight. We checked our stride but did not stop running to it. Perched on the edge of the well was one of the creatures. Small, pink skinned, but so pale as to appear white, looking like a shrivelled, hairless monkey. It raised its baleful eyes to meet mine, and for a fleeting instant I saw something repellently human in that gaze, and then it disappeared over the side of the well, back down into the hell from which it had sprung.
We wasted no further time. We threw as many of the fence posts as we could into the well, ignoring as best we could the terrible chittering cries from below. Then we added the barbed wire for good measure, before pouring in the concrete. We sat exhausted on the grass until we were certain the well had been sealed forever.
We left Mallory's Farm the next morning. For the last seven months my father and Gillian have been living with me at my apartment in town, while they wait to get a buyer for the house. It's all a bit cramped, made even more so by the arrival of the baby. But she's a bonny little thing and both Gillian and my father dote on her. Gillian is painting again, wonderful fantastic pictures, untouched by any hint of darkness. My father seems younger, more carefree than I can ever remember seeing him, and Scotney Publishing is making a slow turn in its fortunes. It's hard work but I predict that Gillian's first childrens' book will be the best seller that lifts the company out of the doldrums.
As for me, I'm finding that work takes up most of time. I no longer have any social contact with my mother or sisters. Business meetings are unavoidable and are usually icily polite. I work hard, have an active and enjoyable social life, and I go to sleep at night at peace with myself and satisfied by life.
But sometimes, only sometimes, I wake in the night convinced I have heard something. A soft, whispered chittering sound that takes me back to the horrors of Mallory's Farm.
AN ENGLISH COUNTRY GARDEN
A good friend of mine told me this story nearly thirty years ago. He recounted the incident in order to unburden the fear it invoked in him, but made me swear never to repeat the tale while he lived. He was genuinely worried that others of a curious or foolish nature would attempt to locate the site of the strange occurrence. Having heard what he had to say, and having seen the terror that the mere telling produced in him, I for one have never had the slightest inclination to indulge my curiosity.
My friend died last week, and now it is my turn to unburden myself from the feeling of dread instilled in me all those years ago, and to attempt, once again, to enjoy the peace of an English garden without intrusive shadows casting their unwelcome darkness into the sunlight.
I shall call my friend Taylor, though that was not his name. Equally I shall not give the true name of the Cornish village where that summer's day was spent. By the natural passing of time the woman should be long in her grave, but some deep instinct within me makes me doubt that as a certainty.
Taylor was a teacher, and usually spent the long summer holidays in different parts of England researching and collecting specimens for his all-consuming hobby of gardening. He would visit the famous gardens of stately homes, spend weeks at horticultural centres, and look up acquaintances whose gardens he knew contained cuttings, or divided rootballs, or unusual specimens he could use in his own grounds.
Before he left University his parents were killed in a road accident, and their house and acres of land were bequeathed to Taylor. An only child, content with his own company, he spent every spare moment of his time creating a living paradise of gardens at the family home. His gardens were superb. I spent many a restful day in them, although in truth Taylor's passion was so intense he could be a demanding host.
One summers’ day, many years ago, Taylor was returning by railway from a week at the gardening centre at Trevance. He had two weeks remaining before he was required to return to school and, unlike him, he ha
d no definite plans how to spend that time. As the train wound its way patiently through the fields and woods, the track fringing the coastline of the Southwest, Taylor mused over the beauty of nature. He marvelled at the random patterns of meadows adorned with buttercup and daisy, at the majestic strength of the oak and beech standing sentinel over tumbling streams of clear white water, at the rugged cliffs and white capped sea.
As the train meandered through the heat of the late morning, Taylor noted the gardens attached to the many houses visible from the carriage window. To his eyes most of them were sorry affairs. Several small towns featured uniform rows of houses built in straight, or barely curved lines with tiny patches of grass clutching forlornly to the rear of the buildings, like desperate fingers of forgotten natural pride sinking, subsiding, beneath the onslaught of development, of inevitable progress. From the larger houses he sustained even greater disappointment. Most were content to devote their gardens to smooth, obscenely striped and flattened lawns, bedecked with white chairs and tables. These false features of lawn were edged with neatly trimmed flowerbeds, evenly spaced and stocked, giving to Taylor the impression of precision and symmetry, two ingredients he considered totally out of place in any garden.
Disgruntled by what he saw he turned his attention away from the countryside and began to browse through some seed catalogues he had in his bags. Content in this fashion for a while he consulted his watch after an interval to ascertain how much longer his journey home would take. As he did so he casually glanced out of the window, expecting only to see further examples of mediocre garden maintenance. Instead what caught his eye was what he described to me as the nearest thing to the perfect garden he had seen outside of his own imagination. He had often told me of the garden of his dreams where all the flowers bloomed together, with little regard for their season, where size and shape of the bushes and plants were ideally suited but appeared natural, where peace and tranquillity were paramount. The garden he glimpsed, as he looked up from his watch, seemed to encapsulate his dream.
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