by Paul Magrs
But could it really be haunted or cursed? Really? All that stuff Penny had been gabbling about last night. About how, when they made the film in the first place, they had summoned up Old Nick himself. Could all the old rumours be true? Or had Penny just scared herself silly?
When he slipped out of the room, Effie was waving her hand in front of the girl’s blank eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she told Robert, in a commanding tone. ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It’s a spell.’
‘Can you sort it out?’
‘I think so. Now – put that disc thing somewhere safe!’
Robert did as he was told. As he passed through reception he saw some of the film crew people wandering towards the dining room, looking unkempt and unwary. What were they thinking of ? Remaking this film? Wasn’t that just tempting fate?
Oh, he was being ridiculous. It was only a movie. And this remake wasn’t even made yet.
He hurried to his office, and the wall safe that had once contained Sheila Manchu’s shrine to her deceased husband. This was the first time anything untoward had happened while Robert was in charge of the Miramar. This morning’s discovery had thrown him somewhat. He realised that he felt responsible for his employees. If they were hurt or frightened out of their wits, then it was his responsibility. He had to do something about it. And he liked Penny, too. There was something about her – an unguardedness and an openness that he found himself responding to.
He really hoped her state wasn’t permanent. He should have told her. Warned her. Don’t watch that disc. She had suspected it was something weird, hadn’t she? She’d tried to tell him all about it, but he hadn’t really been interested. She’d said that it shouldn’t even really exist, this copy that had fallen into her hands. Shouldn’t that have set alarm bells ringing in Robert’s head?
He sighed, slamming the safe door shut on the disastrous film and locking it up again. No, he’d been too bound up in himself, hadn’t he? All he’d been thinking about was his new fella, sitting there in the beer garden on his velvet settee. His thoughts had been caught up in the possibilities of seeing that man again, and he hadn’t concentrated enough on Penny, to whom, as her employer, he had a duty of care.
And she was vulnerable, too, wasn’t she? She was young for her age. A bit innocent in the harsh ways of the world. He knew that she had only recently run away from a marriage that wasn’t working. He should have kept a better eye on her.
Back in her room, Penny was waking up with a violent jolt. She sneezed and blinked and grinned. Then she looked up at the triumphant Effie with huge, startled eyes.
Robert arrived back in the room and could hardly believe what he was seeing.
‘How did you . . . ?’
Effie waved a plateful of hot bacon sandwiches about loftily. ‘It’s an old trick.’ She smiled. ‘I told you I knew a thing or two, didn’t I? Much better than smelling salts. I got that Tony fella on reception to bring bacon sandwiches from the kitchen.’
Penny hefted a sandwich and took a huge bite. ‘What’s been happening? Why am I getting breakfast in bed?’
Robert was delighted that she seemed exactly like her old self. ‘Don’t you remember? You were in a kind of coma. We couldn’t wake you.’
Her eyes boggled. ‘A coma?’ She looked at Effie, perched beside her on the duvet. ‘It’s that woman again!’
‘Ah,’ Robert said proudly. ‘You’ve heard me talk about her. This is Effryggia Jacobs, spinster of this parish.’
Penny stared at the old woman. ‘I know! You’re the witch!’
Effie made a moue of satisfaction at this. She liked it when she lived up to the role allotted to her by all her female forebears. Town witch. Local wise woman. It made a change from being seen as just a snarky busybody.
‘You’re Brenda’s friend?’ Penny asked.
‘That’s right.’ Effie flashed Robert a look. ‘How much have you been telling this young woman about us?’
‘Not much,’ he said shiftily. ‘I think maybe you and Brenda should look into this business with the DVD. I don’t like it.’
‘Me neither,’ Effie murmured.
‘Where did you put it?’ Penny gasped. ‘I hadn’t finished watching it. I believe I fell asleep before it was over.’
‘And a good job too,’ Effie sniffed. ‘We think there’s something weird about it. Something that needs looking into.’
‘Oh!’ Penny felt strangely glad. ‘You mean you’re going to investigate? Robert’s told me a little about what you get up to. I think he’s been pulling my leg. I mean, if only half of it were true! Well . . .’
‘Well what?’ snapped Effie.
‘I mean, Whitby can’t really be a focus or a nexus point for all the dark forces in the world, can it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because – well . . . it’s just in North Yorkshire, isn’t it? I mean, it’s quaint and old-fashioned and everything. But, really. Actual witches and ghouls? Monsters? It can’t be true.’
Effie turned to Robert. ‘I think the shock of the catatonic state has turned her mind. This young woman is talking gibberish.’
‘It’s all true, Penny,’ Robert said gently. ‘Maybe we should get her to a doctor.’
‘I’m fine, really,’ Penny said, jumping out of bed. ‘But I’m still not sure that I believe in the things you’ve told me, Robert.’
‘You shouldn’t have told her anything.’ Effie glowered at him. ‘What were you doing? Showing off ?’
‘And Brenda?’ Penny asked suddenly. ‘Is she really what you say she is?’
Robert nodded. ‘She’s coming back tonight. You’ll get to find out for yourself.’
Effie left them then, looking rather cross. She hated people spreading tittle-tattle. What did they used to say in the war? About loose tongues? Walls having ears? Well, Effie still behaved according to those rules. Keep shtum when you can. This, as far as she was concerned, was still life under wartime conditions. But it was a war with demons, monsters and the undead, and it was, by its nature, never-ending.
As she marched down the hill into town, she mentally corrected that mission statement. She wasn’t at war with all of the demonic undead. No, indeed. Some of her best friends were both. That is, dug up and possessed by demons.
And that didn’t always prevent them from being nice people.
Date
Things were perking up at the Christmas Hotel and Mrs Claus was cock-a-hoop.
Summer had been something of a let-down. Takings had dropped. She had even started to suspect that her hotel’s allure was fading. Perhaps its day was over. It was very unlike Mrs Claus to confront even the idea of defeat like this.
But now things were picking up. There had been an upswing in their fortunes. The place was heaving. Was it all down to Karla Sorenson?
It seemed that just the plain fact that a world-famous film star was staying at the hotel was enough to draw extra custom. People were booking in their droves for lunch and dinner and afternoon tea. Swarms of them were popping into the bar, just on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the divine Ms Sorenson.
Making one of her regular perambulations about the downstairs rooms on her motorised scooter, Mrs Claus couldn’t help but notice the increased number of men of a certain age in the bar. Each of them was sitting or standing by himself, sipping lager and glancing around the room with wolfish eyes. Some of them she recognised as locals. Others she’d never seen before. They’d come from out of town to be here, all at the same time . . .
‘It’s a generational thing, I think. The way I’m drawn to Karla,’ one man told Mrs Claus. He was in his mid thirties by the looks of him and, once he got talking, rather friendly. There was a gorgeous Irish look to him. All swarthy, with that dark, tangled hair. Those smooth forearms. Mrs Claus gave an involuntary shiver as she looked him up and down. She had paused her scooter by his bar table to ask if he was all right, sitting there alone.
He went on, ‘Men of my age all saw Karla Sorenson�
�s movie appearances at a very formative point in their growing up. I was ten. It was one of those late-night double bills of horror flicks that the BBC used to put on. Well, I used to love those films and I’d stay up so late, fighting against sleep. Just to watch the monster movies. Except one week there was a double bill starring the vampish Karla. Carnival of Flesh and Blood in the House of Love. “Oh, you’ll love this, son,” my dad said, chuckling. “What a woman!” And, to be honest, after that I was never the same again. Karla became my ideal.’
Mrs Claus asked him, ‘What is it you like about her?’
He looked at her like she was crazy. ‘Everything. She’s perfect. She’s always been perfect!’
The poor man was just about drooling. Mrs Claus tutted and shook her head. Men were so weak. She smiled at him and glanced around at the other punters at the bar. ‘I can see that Karla has attracted quite a few long-term fans like yourself to my establishment.’ The fans were easy to pick out. They were quite different to the jocular, elderly guests that the Christmas Hotel usually catered for. They stood out plainly in the festive throng. They didn’t look pleased or happy or excited. They looked rather fevered. That was the exact word for it, Mrs Claus mused.
She was discomfited by the thought. Yes, these men were hollow-eyed and fervent. Like sleepwalkers intent on some obscure mission.
Cultists, she thought. They all look like they belong to the Cult of Karla. Mrs Claus was somewhat irked by this. She was all in favour of the increased business and the glitz and glamour and a bit of free publicity. But she didn’t want La Sorenson taking over the whole shop. She didn’t want the starlet inculcating and seducing all the men in the town. That wouldn’t look very good at all, would it? There’d be no end of trouble.
Karla Sorenson came with a bad reputation for that kind of thing. Some said she was demonised. Well, Mrs Claus wasn’t sure about that. But she knew a man-eater when she saw one, and that lady in the turret suite had ‘voracious’ written all over her.
‘Do you think,’ said Mrs Claus’s new gentleman friend, ‘there’s any chance that we’ll actually see her down here? If we hang around long enough?’
Mrs Claus smiled. ‘I’m sure you will, dearie. But she hasn’t been down from her turret yet. She’s luxuriating in my most splendid suite at the moment. Probably pampering herself rotten. But I am sure she will make her appearance soon. Very soon. In fact – and maybe I shouldn’t say this, because she hasn’t yet agreed . . .’ Mrs Claus manoeuvred her scooter closer to him and leaned in. She breathed in his scent of – what was it? Something delicious. Pepper, nutmeg? Cloves? It was a long time since she had been this close to a man. She could feel the warmth of his skin, and see the pulse in his throat, gently throbbing. ‘You see, I’ve asked her to sing at our cabaret tomorrow night. In the Grand Ballroom at midnight.’
His eyes widened. ‘Sing!’
They both knew that Karla hardly ever sang in public. She had only ever released one album of songs, to cash in on her horror movie fame. Back in 1978 she had recorded a selection of disco anthems with a supernatural flavour: Boogie with Beelzebub.
His face shone at the thought of her performing live at the Christmas Hotel. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. Mrs Claus could hardly stop herself dabbing at him with her scarlet hanky.
‘Can I come along? Can I get a ticket?’
‘Alas,’ she batted her dark green eyelashes, ‘they’re all gone by now, Mr . . . ?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘Michael. My name is Michael.’
‘What a lovely name. Well,’ she faked a faraway look, ‘perhaps there is a way you could attend tomorrow night’s festivities.’
He looked eager. She pounced.
‘I don’t have a date yet.’ She grinned at him. ‘How do you feel about becoming my young gentleman for the evening?’
Michael swallowed hard and stared at her florid, crazed complexion and her wild lilac hair. She held out one dimpled, beringed hand for him to shake as if to seal their deal.
Anything! he thought recklessly. He kissed Mrs Claus’s podgy hand, which was very warm. ‘I’d be delighted to accompany you,’ he intoned, and that glassy look was back in his eyes. Suddenly he felt queasy and very tired. Like he hadn’t slept at all last night. As if the very thought of Karla Sorenson was keeping him awake in the wee small hours.
Mrs Claus gazed at her prize happily. His rumpled, tired style looked well on him, she thought. And then she started wondering what everyone would say when they saw her with this strapping specimen on her arm.
Reunited
Brenda asked Effie: ‘Guess how many strange adventures I’ve had since I’ve been away?’
Effie pursed her lips. ‘Go on. How many?’ She felt a surge of – was it envy? – at the idea of Brenda and Frank having their own investigations away from her.
Brenda grinned. ‘None! Nothing happened! It was all really dull! Ordinary as anything. We just toured around the north country, walking, eating meals, looking at shops and places of historical interest. And nothing mysterious or untoward happened whatsoever!’
‘Oh,’ said Effie, mollified by this.
‘What about here?’ Brenda asked her.
‘Oh, you know. Business as usual.’
‘You mean, there’s been things happening?’
‘Not quite. Not yet.’
Brenda frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Effie lowered her voice. ‘It rather looks as if things might be stirring.’
‘I see,’ Brenda said. Then she brightly changed the subject. ‘I must say, it’s very nice of you and Robert and what’s his young friend’s name? Penny? To come and meet us like this.’
It was almost one a.m at the bus station. Frank was fetching their cases from the back of the coach; Robert and Penny were standing to one side, Robert grinning all over his face, and Penny seeming rather shocked by the appearance of these new arrivals. She smiled politely, Effie noticed, but kept a wary distance.
What are we doing here, this time of night? Effie wondered. She had had to see Brenda at the first possible opportunity. She didn’t care if that made her look soft or ridiculous. ‘We haven’t half missed you,’ she said now, staring up at her friend. Brenda looked the same as ever, thank goodness. Effie watched as her friend took a deep breath, sucking in the chill night air.
Brenda turned to stare at the black water of the harbour twinkling, and the mist hanging down over the abbey and the cliffs. ‘Ooh, I’m glad to be back,’ she said. ‘But do you think we could all get out of the cold? Spicy tea at mine, everyone? That’ll warm us through.’
In the Turret Suite at the Christmas Hotel
The woman looked out over the town.
As she argued over the phone she cut an elegant silhouette in the window of the turret suite. Tapping her fag ash and sighing deeply as she took in the vista of Whitby before her.
Anyone sitting across the harbour, beside the abbey, say, training a high-powered pair of binoculars at the Christmas Hotel would have seen a woman of indeterminate age. Not just because her hair and make-up were perfect, or because she was backlit against the bright room. There was also something spookily ageless about Karla. Even up close she looked a good thirty years too young.
Just then, however, she was giving hardly any thought to how she looked. This was very unusual for her. She was thinking instead – furiously – about work. And about what she had got herself embroiled in. She was in the middle of a phone call that was driving her crazy. She tossed her ciggie out of the window and sighed heavily over the stream of words coming out of the receiver.
She stared at the abbey and the darkening clouds. She caught her frowning reflection and turned away with a cry.
How could they? she wanted to know.
The original script had been as perfect as it could be. How could they mess it up now? What were they playing at? Fiddling and diddling and screwing things up.
At the other end of the phone, the producer’s ears were rin
ging as she let him have it with both barrels.
It was a remake! The script was already there! It was perfect. In every single detail. Why, it had been written in the first place by that towering genius Fox Soames, and it was adapted from his own novel. Of course it was perfect. It was unbeatable!
What was it about these young people that made them think they could improve on perfection?
Karla groaned and flung herself back on the sateen coverlet as the producer whined and maundered on in her ear.
Blah, blah, something about updating and relevance to today’s culture. What did that mean? It was a timeless classic. The deathless tale of one woman’s possession by dark forces. What needed updating about that?
Now the producer was rabbiting on about contemporary sensibilities in a multicultural world and something about belief systems and tolerance and so on. Karla really had no idea what he was blethering on about. He was just getting into his stride when she cut him dead.
‘Look. There is simply no way you’re going to make Get Thee Inside Me, Satan more politically correct.’
The producer quailed. She could hear him. She knew she had him in her power now. ‘That’s not what we’re trying to do, Ms Sorenson. We are simply attempting to—’
‘You can’t tamper with brilliance like this,’ she hissed. ‘That script, back in 1967 was sheer, ineffable genius. And what I’ve just read is bullshit. Plain and simple. You’ve ripped the heart out of this project, Adrian. You and that committee of simpering idiots you call script writers.’ She took a deep breath, listening hard to the offended silence on the line. ‘Now, I suggest you get straight back to work, sorting this thing out. Or just use the original. I’m sure it’ll only take a few tweaks, to move the setting from Wales to Whitby.’