3. MOTHS
4. THE WINDOW
5. SNOW BEETLES
6. FLOUR WHITE AND SPINDLE THIN
7. THE PAIN COLLECTOR
8. BENJAMIN'S SHADOW
9. FLAME
Best start at the beginning he thought, noting the size of the stories, roughly calculating their length by the page numbers indicating where they began and ended.
AN OFFICE IN THE GRAYS INN ROAD
It told the story of a woman who had been widowed but then haunted by her dead husband and his lover.
Bit close to home he had to admit.
He hadn’t meant to start the affair with Mandy at work but somehow it had just escalated from flirty conversations, to odd lunch time drinks, then a conference away from home provided the perfect opportunity for one drink too many, and flirty fun tipped over into full on adultery.
The story was well told, with some nice touches. Steve particularly liked a scene featuring an old style lift.
Locking the door, she walked out onto the landing. The whole building seemed deserted. She found the door to the stairs had been locked, which left her with no alternative but to take the lift, even though she hated the things. A stillness seemed to hang in the air, as if waiting for something. The only sound to break the silence was the whirring of the lift mechanism. When she pressed the call button the mechanism grumbled into life, the sudden noise making her move away from the lift entrance, in apprehension. She was aware of being alone in the darkened building, she could feel her heart beating faster, her breathing tight and uncomfortable.
The lift seemed to be taking an age to rise from the ground floor, and as she waited her unease began to grow. Whether it was weariness or whether she was just emotionally drained and feeling vulnerable, the effect was unpleasant. As the counter-balance dropped and the snaking cables hauled the lift up to her floor, she started to get the strangest feeling that when the lift finally arrived, it would be occupied. She sensed a presence, caged in the wooden and metal box that was inching ever closer to her floor, and she was convinced that whatever was rising from below was hostile. No matter how hard she tried to persuade herself she was being foolish and hysterical, she could not dispel the growing sense of panic. She found herself edging backwards until she was standing on the opposite side of the landing, her back pressed against the wall, ready to run if she saw anything occupying the lift.
Finally it reached her floor and she could see through the gates that it was quite empty, but still she had to brace herself to walk forward, pull them open and step into that confining little box. She shut the gates and pressed the button for the ground floor.
Whoever had used the lift last must have bathed in perfume as it hung in the air, heavy and cloying. It was a rich, heady scent, and as the lift descended the smell seemed to intensify, filling her senses, making her feel slightly nauseous. She started to breathe shallowly, cupping her hand over her nose and mouth, using her fingers as a filter, but the perfume was insidious and crept into her nostrils, filling her lungs and making her head swim. She felt sick and giddy and she clutched at the lift gates for support as her legs buckled beneath her. It was then that the lights went out.
The panic she had been holding at bay swept over her, overpowering, as the lift was plunged into darkness. Along with the panic came the unshakeable feeling that she was not alone in the lift. The lift continued its descent, but in inky blackness, which made it so much worse. She pressed herself into the corner, listening to the steady whirr of the lift's motor, and the clank and grind of the pulleys, praying for the descent to end. She wanted nothing more than to escape from the confining boundaries of that tomb-like box. In the blackness the insidious perfume was permeating into her clothing, seeming to soak into her skin.
When something brushed against her cheek she cried out. It felt like fur, warm and soft, but the touch was so fleeting, the memory of the actual texture was fading from her mind as quickly as the sensation vanished from her cheek.
At last the lift juddered to a halt and she threw back the gates and tumbled out, catching the heel of her shoe. She rushed through the foyer, yanked open the door and ran out into the street. She bent forward, taking deep lungfuls of the carbon monoxide tainted London air. She half expected someone to follow her out of the building but no one did. If someone had been in the lift with her then they stayed inside.
It was obvious there had been someone, or something, in the lift with her and the inference was the ghost, for that was surely what was being heralded here, the ghost was now stalking, or haunting her.
He had to admit it was a story that had a certain parallel with the way his own life was developing. Not the widowed part, he didn’t wish Helen any ill, but he was starting to realise he was in the relationship with Mandy a little more deeply than he intended. He didn’t know how he would get out of it.
He had an opinion about her, not based on any facts, just feelings, that she might be quite vengeful, a bit like the dead lover in the story. Except Mandy wasn’t dead. But she was determined.
He knew he was being selfish. He had enjoyed the few times he had made love with Mandy but he didn’t want a relationship with her that went beyond that. He didn’t actually want to think of her as a person in his life.
He sipped his whisky and flicked the page of the book to the start of the next story. IMAGES. That sounded more like it. He read it and found the theme echoed what he would like to turn his life into, it was about a man, a photographer, who captures a woman on film who must be a ghost. But he visits her house and he becomes a ghost, or as the story portrays, he becomes an image like an old fashioned photograph negative.
Rather improbably that was what he wished could happen to Mandy, she might just fade away.
The story used the man’s assistant as the conduit to explain what was happening.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Gideon said to his assistant, Marie. She picked up the sheaf of photographs he’d dropped onto the desk in front of her and began leafing through them.
‘Marvellous,’ she said. ‘Were all these taken on Sunday?’
‘The majority of them. The light was perfect, as you can see.’
Marie Brennan’s passion for photography was matched only by Gideon’s, but he was much the better photographer. She’d been working with him for just over a year and he’d been impressed enough by her skills to let her take over the bulk of the routine work, which was fine by her as she had a love of portraiture. The weddings were a different matter, as she found such formal events quite stressful, the responsibility of getting three-dozen shots quickly and perfectly quite daunting. But she was here to learn, and to learn from a master.
‘I like this one especially,’ she said. She’d stopped at the image of the Hammond farmhouse and was examining it closely. ‘Where did you take it?’
‘Up on Melpham Tor. I’m just amazed I’ve never noticed the place before. I must have been up there a hundred times.’
She laid the photograph down on the desk and picked up a magnifying lens, studying the print closely, a frown slightly creasing her brow.
‘Something wrong?’ Gideon said, staring over her shoulder at the photograph.
‘You had an audience when you took this one.’
His mind conjured up the face of Kate Hammond and he smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know. But the question is, how did you?’
She glanced up at him. ‘You can see him.’
‘Him?’ He leaned in closer.
‘Third window along. It’s pretty vague, but there’s definitely someone looking back at you. Upper floor, third window along.’
He lifted the photo and scrutinised it with the lens. Marie was right. There was definitely someone standing at the window of the farmhouse.
‘Dammit!’ Gideon said. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ There was irritation in his voice.
‘Does it matter?’
He gave her a pitying look. ‘Of course it matters. The whole purpose of a shot like this is to present
an image of a place that’s impersonal, so that the viewer, coming across it in a magazine or book, can immediately transpose themselves into it... so they can imagine themselves living there. You can’t do that if you have someone, perhaps the owner of the house, staring back at you. It shatters the illusion.’ He dropped the photograph back on the desk with a snort of disgust. ‘Bugger it!’ He said.
He yawned. The therapy of reading was working. Tomorrow was Saturday. If he read some more he could sleep soundly and have a lie in.
‘I’m going up,’ Helen said.
‘Mind if I stay and read?’
‘Enjoying it?’
‘It’s just the job.’
‘I’ll leave the light on. See you later.’
As she shut the door behind her the candle on the mantelpiece flickered a little in the slight movement of air. It sent a shadow echoing around the wall to his right and for a moment he looked up quickly as if someone was there.
This ghost story reading must be affecting me more that I thought.
What’s the next story?
MOTHS AT THE WINDOW.
No, that’s not right. He kept his finger at the start of the next story and flicked back to the contents. There it was, two stories. MOTHS. THE WINDOW. Yet on the page where the story began it had the two titles combined. How irritating. Type setting error probably. You’d think they’d get that right at the proofing stage wouldn’t you?
He only hoped the stories weren’t mixed up.
But they were.
Moths was the very long story about a mythical Japanese creature, the Tashkai, that steal what’s best from people, a musical talent, that kind of thing. While The Window was about a retired civil servant who buys an old country house only to find it haunted.
There was a scene in Moths where he could have sworn it was written inside the hotel room he had first bedded Mandy.
With a sigh of defeat he switched off the lamp and closed his eyes.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep when he heard the door open, and felt the mattress dip as a smooth warm body slid into the bed beside him. Soft fingertips traced the contours of his back, travelling down to caress his buttocks. Gradually he was becoming aroused but was frightened to move in case he ruined the mood of the seduction. The hand slid round to his chest, the fingers entwining themselves in his chest hair, flitting lightly across his nipple.
He could smell her now, a dusky scent, unfamiliar yet deeply arousing. Not perfume, but a natural smell of musk. He opened his eyes but the darkness in the room was absolute. Soft lips pressed against his neck and he heard her whisper his name in a breathy, sensuous voice.
His senses were being bombarded by an intense sexuality unlike anything he had experienced before. Arms wrapped themselves around his torso and legs entwined in his, a foot stroking his calf, sharp toenails scoring gently down his skin. He breathed her name, "Heather," and twisted round to kiss the waiting lips. A kiss so passionate that it left him gasping for air. But the lips were insistent, the tongue probing his mouth, the teeth nibbling the tender flesh of his bottom lip.
She rolled on top of him, straddling him with her thighs. He could see her outline in the darkness, a black shape more solid than its surroundings, writhing in an animalistic ecstasy. Then she leaned forwards to kiss him once more.
As the long strands of silky hair brushed across his face he cried out, bucking and twisting his body to throw the woman off. Above him came a feral snarl and a hand lashed at his face, long fingernails scratching his cheek. David thrust his feet into the mattress and arched his body, feeling the weight leave him and fall to one side. With a sob of relief he reached for the bedside lamp.
His hand found the lamp-switch and flicked it on, yanking his hand back with revulsion as a dozen fat-bodied moths dropped from their perch inside the lamp-shade and started to circle the light. Beside him the bed was empty. He was alone in the room.
That was what had happened to him. After he and Mandy had exhausted one another he fell asleep. They were in her room and when he woke up a couple of hours later she wasn’t there.
He turned back a few pages to look at the end of the scene but what he found was different to what he had just finished reading. The stories had become jumbled.
Tinged with loneliness and a sense of unease, he sat as the days passed, waiting for some further threat to his life. As he sat alone in his study he waited for a scratching at the door, or a tapping at the window, at first with dread, but as the days dragged on he felt an anticipation build up within him, until he began to imagine noises in the house or movement in the gardens, and to welcome their distraction. Then gradually the realisation came to him that his death was slowly approaching. The fear he felt ebbed away, the anticipation left him, to be replaced by an acceptance. The knowledge that the events in and around the house were a prelude led him to a close understanding.
One day he looked from the new window expecting to see the woman staring at the house. She wasn't there. It was strangely silent, the silence adding to his disappointment. He turned and looked about him. The curtains suddenly billowed out and caught him, trapped against the smooth glass. A cold draught blew on his neck, entangling the curtains around him. As he pushed to free himself he saw, coming along the passage, Mandy dressed in the black dress. Her flesh was wrinkled, white and peeling, the dress tattered and filthy, yet she walked calmly with the dignity of nobility.
Before she reached him Mandy dropped onto all fours and bounded along the passage. With a hideous snarl she leapt at him, and fingers like sharp claws tore his chest. As he felt the foul breath at his throat he flung his arm wildly. There was a rush of cold wind from the house as cheated death seemed to whistle along the passage and out through the broken window.
That can’t be right. He read through the ending of The Window again. There was no mention of Mandy. The name wasn’t given in the story, the creature was described just as, the woman, or her or she.
He looked again at the contents and noticed that the authors names were spelt differently to the cover. L P Meyard and M H Nimms.
He examined the front cover. The authors names had disappeared. From the spine as well, blank, apart from the title of the book. HAUNTING HORROR STORIES. No, wait a moment that wasn’t right either.
He was clearly more tired, and certainly emotionally affected by what he was doing, than he thought.
Bed or whisky and another story?
He poured a heavy measure into his glass and began to read FLOUR WHITE SNOW BEETLES.
‘This is my first time to Austria, and all I have seen of Germany is what I saw from the plane as we flew over it.’
‘And I have never visited Britain. Extraordinary. You must have a doppelganger, Herr Towner. A double, yes?’
Towner shrugged, and did not tell the other man that he’d experienced the same recognition himself. For reasons he could not quite explain to himself, he’d taken an intense dislike to Niederman, and the sooner this journey was over the better. He turned his attention back to the scenery.
There was a moment’s silence then Niederman said, ‘It’s a beautiful country, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ Towner said, not looking round. ‘Yes it is.’
Dawn the colour of honey rose slowly over the verdant expanse of Flatland Marsh. Tom Henderson breathed in the crisp morning air, pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, sucking in the tobacco smoke and rolling it around his mouth before drawing it deeply into his lungs. His first morning in his new job of marsh-warden and already he was grateful for his redundancy from the electronics company. The redundancy had given him an opportunity to reassess his life. With his wife Louise making enough money from illustrating to cover most of their needs, his role as breadwinner had become more and more superfluous. It was time for a complete break, and he’d grabbed this chance to escape the rat race with both hands. Now he was glad he had done so.
This was getting crazy. He turned a few pages of Sn
ow Beetles to peruse Flour White And Spindle Thin. This was the two stories combining.
One was about a man recently widowed who visits the old haunts he shared with his wife and is haunted by the memories. The other was about a childless couple who are adopted by ghost children.
This was getting too close to home. Holly was adopted after he and Helen couldn’t conceive. And he had found comfort recently in looking at old photographs of holidays he and Helen had enjoyed, as if he was reaffirming what they had together and reassuring himself he wouldn’t destroy it with Mandy.
‘It’s not only my homeland, but also my spiritual home. Those years spent in Berlin were like torture to me, but my father’s business took him there and my mother and I had no alternative but to accompany him. Those years were miserable.’ Niederman changed tack suddenly. ‘A photograph, that’s where I have seen your face. In a photograph…but where?’
Towner rounded on him. ‘Forgive me if this seems rude, Herr Niederman, but I couldn’t give a two penny damn if you think you know me or not. You don’t, and I don’t know you. I have never been to Austria before in my life, and I have never stayed at the Alpenblum hotel, despite the staffs’ misconception that I have. This is my holiday. I came abroad to get away from peoples’ bloody morbid sympathy after the death of my wife. I am not seeking companionship, nor am I looking to discover imaginary relationships that total strangers think they may have had with me in the past. Do I make myself perfectly clear?’
He surveyed the landscape, taking in the rough tussocks of scrubby grass and the torpid pools of water that harboured all manner of wildlife. To the west were outcrops of granite, dark soldiers standing guard over the marsh; to the east the town of Risley. And beyond the marsh, the cold grey waters of the North Sea, separated from the land by mud flats.
He ground the cigarette under the thick rubber sole of his boot and headed back. The house that came with the job was nothing grand, nothing more than a two bed roomed cottage sitting in half an acre of land. There was a garden, an orchard and a large ornamental pond, but the garden was unkempt and running to weed, the orchard nothing more than a handful of diseased apple trees, with a couple of pears to give variety, and the pond was choked with weed and harboured nothing but frogs and newts, the fish having long died off. His predecessor obviously had no time for maintenance, either that or couldn’t be bothered, and the decor in the house mirrored the sad state of the garden with peeling wallpaper, chipped and browning paintwork, and the dishevelled feel of an old man long since past his prime.
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