Shooting Lights

by Mary Victoria Johnson

  I squinted, fighting back the nausea. “We’re on the wrong side of the motorway.”

  “Darn. We’re heading in the right direction though.”

  “Yeah, but like three miles too far north.” I reached around and shut off the music, silencing John Farnham midway through the chorus of his newest song. “Why don’t you find somewhere to pull in? It’s nearly sundown and we haven’t eaten anything, so stopping and getting everything together is probably a good idea.”

  “Can’t be. I didn’t come up with it,” Jeanne teased. Still, she eased off the accelerator, slowing right down and focusing more on where she was.

  The road stretched out for ages in front of us, bordered on one side by meadows and a strip of trees on the other. The pavement was riddled with potholes and was barely wide enough to accommodate us, so that a car coming in the opposite direction would probably have to drive into the hedge to get by. Not a building was in sight.

  “This is practically a path,” Jeanne admitted. “Perhaps the motorway would’ve been better.”

  You don’t say.

  The trees materialized on the other side of us too, increasing the sense of tightness. As Jeanne slowed down to a crawling pace, I noticed I was holding my breath.

  We crept over a tiny bridge, so constricted that both wing mirrors scraped the brick. Then, as though we weren’t in enough of a pickle, the lane decided to fork into two unpaved . . . tracks. The word “road,” even “lane,” was too generous.

  Jeanne stopped. “Well . . . crap.”

  “Crap, indeed,” I nodded. “The route on the left looks like it’s made of it.”

  According to the map, we’d come about a mile since turning, and there was at least another mile left in either direction before civilization returned. At this rate, noting the golden sunset, it would be dark before we were back where we were supposed to be.

  “Sorry, Tree,” Jeanne sighed, sounding genuine. “I think we’re stuck.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said with as much brightness as I could muster. “Take the right-hand leg. Left looks like it’s just for tractors.”

  “No.” Jeanne shook her head, still sounding apologetic. “I mean, we’re really, actually, completely, fully, and even utterly stuck.” She revved the gas to prove it.

  With a sinking feeling, I realized she hadn’t stopped on purpose.

  We both unbuckled and got out to survey the damage. One wheel was jammed in a pothole, and the other three were several inches deep in mud, which had splattered up the side of the car like it was part of the paintwork. Stuck.

  Jeanne glanced at me. “Ideas?”

  “Er . . . no.”

  We stared at the car dumbly, shuffling our feet and occasionally doing something useless, such as tapping the bonnet or kicking the tires. The sun continued to sink, shadows from the trees lengthening and drawing goose bumps on my arms. Considering we’d only been going an hour, this was a bit of an ominous start.

  We tried pushing the car out, to no avail. Eventually, Jeanne had to turn the headlights on, given that there weren’t any streetlights or buildings. I searched under the seats for the premade sandwiches and crisps we’d bought in Swaffham, sneaking one of Jeanne’s scarves out of her suitcase in lieu of a proper jacket. Although there was nothing particularly sinister about the area, its pure remoteness had me on edge. We hadn’t passed anyone else since turning off the main road, and I couldn’t hear the hum of the motorway anymore.

  “Someone will come by,” I said, more to assure myself than anything. “Sooner or later.”

  “I guess we’ll be sleeping in Morris after all.” Jeanne wrapped her arms around her torso and shivered, walking a little way up the road and back again. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Prawn mayonnaise or egg and cress?” I asked, holding up the sandwiches. “And I’ve got either cheese and onion or ready salted for crisps.”

  Jeanne considered this for a moment. “Prawn and ready salted. Ta very much.”

  The twilight was silent, broken only by the sound of us crunching and rustling the bags. When we were finished, small talk was exchanged to hide how nervous we were getting. An owl hooted from somewhere nearby, making both of us jump out of our skins, and Jeanne dived for the car.

  “Come on, come on,” she snapped, revving the engine again and again. It spluttered with effort, the wheels spinning frantically, but didn’t move an inch.

  She slammed the door and began storming down the darkening lane ahead, muttering, “Screw it,” under her breath.

  “Jeanne?”

  “There’s got to be a house around somewhere.” She kept walking. “We can phone for help. I am not staying out here all night.”

  I followed, pulling the scarf tighter around my shoulders and trying not to trip over potholes made invisible by the dimness. England wasn’t known for its vicious animals—I was pretty sure cows were statistically the most dangerous things we had—but I couldn’t help imagining that each rustle or screech belonged to something stalking us. Wolves, or bears, or a large stray dog perhaps . . .

  “Hey!” Jeanne exclaimed, so suddenly I almost screamed. She glanced at me and chuckled. “Relax, Tree. Is that building what I think it is?”

  I squinted, just able to make out the silhouette of a house or barn in the middle of a field, behind the row of trees. “There aren’t any lights on.”

  “No, no, no.” She grinned one of those grins that always made me apprehensive. “Elm House, Suffolk. Isn’t that supposed to be right around this area? This could totally be it!”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Supposedly one of the most haunted buildings in the east. The last family to live in it abandoned it, like, ten years ago after their son got possessed and tried to kill them. Some ancient demon lives in the attic walls. I think.” Jeanne’s grin widened. “Last year, I heard of this girl who went in on a dare and never came out. They found her body bricked into a secret room . . . or was it nailed to a doorway?”

  “That is,” I said, “without a doubt, the fakest thing I’ve ever heard. Ever.”

  Jeanne crossed into the field, gesturing at me to follow her. “In that case, we should be perfectly fine to go inside.”

  “That’s trespassing! And besides, you were the one too scared to stay in the car a minute ago.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “This is fun. Are you coming or not?”

  I hesitated, looking over my shoulder at the dark lane behind and then at Jeanne, now running through the field toward the derelict house. Crap.

  Taking a deep breath, I jogged to catch up.

  CASTLE ACRE WAS KNOWN FOR TWO THINGS: ITS titular castle and its nine-hundred-year-old priory. The castle was ruined beyond recognition, but the priory still had enough walls left standing to give the illusion of being a proper building. There were stairs leading to nowhere, doors that had been locked for longer than anyone could remember, attics with no windows, and walls so thick they were practically soundproof. Of course, it was only natural that ghost stories involving headless monks and strange lights within inaccessible rooms sprang into being. It became a rite of passage to sneak in at night with friends and scare each other silly. When I was fourteen, before I’d known Jeanne, I’d gone to the priory at Halloween with my schoolmates, an episode that had ended with us all running home screaming after seeing a “body” hanging from the highest ruin. Apparently, a group of older kids had also snuck in, pantsed a younger boy, and thrown his trousers onto said tower. They’d remained there for weeks after.

  Approaching Elm House, it wasn’t hard to fathom how rumors of its being haunted spread either. Compared to the tiny flint cottages we’d passed on the journey here, it was massive, two full stories with windows peeking out of the collapsing roof. The outside was whitewashed stone rather than brick or flint, in dire need of repainting, and an entire side had been taken over by a jungle of ivy and brambles. The windows were boarded up, the front door was missing altogether, and
the paved path leading up to it was so badly cracked that each piece gave the impression of being a miniature tombstone.

  “‘Elm House’,” Jeanne read. “‘Do Not Enter.’ Sweet.”

  Standing at the threshold, I couldn’t help but notice again how isolated we were. There was no telephone line or electricity in the house, and if anything were to happen . . .

  “Jeanne!” I hissed, diving in. “Wait for me!”

  She stood in the foyer, doing a full turn with her head tilted upward to take it all in. The staircase wrapped around the entrance and disappeared into the darkness above.

  “It smells like mold,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Mold and my grandmother.”

  “With a slight touch of demons and death,” I added. “It’s freezing in here. Can we go now?”

  “I think we should spend the night,” Jeanne said in a tone that offered no room for debate. “Just to say we did. Attic or main floor?” Without waiting for me to answer, she started up the staircase, each movement unleashing an unhealthy creaking that seemed to come from the entire house at once.

  Given three wishes, at that moment, my first demand would have been a light, without hesitation. The stairs felt just as rotten as the floor below, and on several occasions, something small scurried past my ankles and disappeared. I wasn’t afraid of spooks, but the sheer amount of creepy crawlies that the house must have been hiding was more than enough to set my heart hammering. That, and it felt one wrong move away from collapsing entirely.

  By the time I reached the next floor, my eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom. There was a threadbare carpet on the floor, covered with a suspicious blackish-red stain, but apart from that all the rooms appeared vacant. Out of a shattered bedroom window, I saw the moon had risen over the surrounding farmland.

  “Can you see how to get up to the attic?” Jeanne whispered, hushed by weight of the stillness.

  “Down the corridor, I’m guessing. Can’t we stay down here?”

  “Might as well go all the way. If it’s too freaky, we can come down again,” she promised. “But I want to at least have a look.”

  We tiptoed down the corridor. I kept my eyes glued to the floor in front of me, fearful of what I’d find if I looked around too closely. Jeanne’s presence was never far behind me, close enough that I felt her breathing down my neck several times.

  “Here!” she exclaimed . . . from in front of me.

  “Were you ahead the whole time?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I shivered. It must have been a draft, although I heard footsteps coming from behind. Stop it. You’re letting it get to you.

  The passage leading up to the attic was straight out of a horror movie. Only wide enough to accommodate one person at a time, it climbed upward for at least thirty rickety steps into a swath of darkness so thick it made the entrance hall feel like daytime. The walls were scratched as though . . . as though something with extraordinarily long and sharp nails had dragged its hand all the way up.

  I gulped.

  “If we die,” Jeanne said seriously, “then I want you to know you’ve been a suitably mediocre best friend. And I love you dearly.”

  “You’ve been okay, too. A solid six out of ten.” I was alarmed by how dry my throat was. “If you die, can I keep this scarf? It’s actually super warm.”

  “Fine, but I get your twelve-inch record collection,” she laughed, forgetting she was supposed to hate my pop music now. “Ready?”

  “You first.”

  The moment I said it, I regretted that order. Being behind was almost worse, feeling that odd presence breathing down my neck . . . at least Jeanne had me watching her back. The walls were claustrophobically close together, cold to the touch and remarkably solid compared to the rest of the house.

  “Watch the next step, it’s wonky.”

  “Watch the ghost, it’s right in front of you,” I retorted.

  I felt, rather than saw, her eyes roll.

  Reaching the attic, I let out the breath I’d been holding in. Moonlight streamed in from a gaping hole in the roof, a collection of decaying beams draped with so many spider webs it looked fake. There was a pile of litter, presumably from the last group of teenagers who’d decided to break in, but aside from that, the attic held nothing but dust.

  Jeanne walked around, her flowing skirt and blond hair eerily ghostlike. She trailed her fingers over the walls, the beams, the graffiti, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “You know, it’s actually quite cool up here. If it was closer to home, I’d make it my permanent hangout.”

  I stretched my neck to see out of the hole. The view was amazing, with miles of black fields and the glowing mass of a village visible just before the horizon. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the stars were bright and sparkling.

  Jeanne lay down with a sigh, positioned so she too could see the stars. “Yeah, much better than Morris.”

  I swept the floor with my foot, then lay down too, using the scarf as a blanket. “Sweet nightmares.”

  “Don’t let the demons bite.”

  My eyelids were heavy. It must have been close to midnight, and contrary to the stereotype surrounding people my age, I rarely stayed up much past ten. So despite being in a haunted house, sleep came quickly.

  I woke up what simultaneously felt like hours and seconds later to Jeanne shaking my arm. Her face was pale and worried.

  “What?” I twisted over and stared at the moon. Morning was still hours away.

  “Can’t you hear that?”

  “Very funny,” I grumbled, propping my head up on my elbow. “What is it, a voice telling us to—”

  “Shh!”

  We both froze. Faintly, almost inaudibly, there was the sound of piano music. Not very good music, just the sort of elementary-level plonking you’d expect from a beginner. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” type stuff, but that made it all the more unnerving.

  “Did you see a piano on the way in?”

  I shook my head, heart beginning to pound again.

  The music was getting steadily louder, more violent. Gradually transitioning from lullaby to the sound that would result from repeatedly bashing someone’s head against the keys.

  Jeanne mouthed a curse.

  Louder, louder, more chaotic, until it was a wonder the player hadn’t broken the piano. Louder, louder.

  My heart was practically humming. I gathered the scarf tighter around my shoulders and prayed I was actually still asleep.

  Then it stopped. Just like that.

  “Oh my god.”

  “What do we do?”

  Jeanne thought for a moment, tapping her foot in a clear display of nerves. “Morris. Just keep your head down and run, and don’t stop until we’re back on the road. Sound like a plan?”

  I nodded uncertainly. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Such as . . . such as . . .

  “Tree!” Jeanne grabbed my arm and tugged me to my feet. If she’d been a dog, her ears would have been pricked up, alert. “It’s probably an old tape left by locals or . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

  I followed in her wake, body tensed in anticipation for the piano to strike up again.

  SLAM.

  Jeanne and I halted, exchanging looks of terror. The door, hanging by its hinges before the staircase, was now shut.

  “Wind,” Jeanne whispered. We both glanced outside, where the night was still and silent.

  “Go on, then. Open it.”

  Jeanne was regarding the door like it might bite her. Gingerly, standing as far away as she could, she stretched out an arm and rattled the handle.

  “Oh god.” She rattled it again, more aggressively. “It’s locked. It’s locked.”

  “Jammed, more like.” I swallowed a growing panic and stepped forward. The handle was rusted and rough under my hand, in the same state of disintegration as the house itself. However, beyond a doubt, it was locked.

  Jeanne swore, this time very much aud
ibly.

  “For the record, I blame you for this,” I said. Joking aside, I felt scared enough to vomit.

  Jeanne kicked the door with her combat boots, throwing all her weight behind it. I considered climbing out of the hole in the roof if she was unsuccessful.

  Finally, on the fifth kick, it gave way. Unfortunately, no sooner had the door been crushed, the piano music sounded.

  “It’s not real.” Jeanne’s hand snaked through the darkness and gripped mine. It was unusually clammy.

  “But let’s call it a day,” I agreed.

  Down the stairs. Heart in my mouth. Jeanne holding my hand in a vice grip. Stumbling blindly, tripping down the last few steps.

  Scratching. Now that the piano had faded yet again, I could hear a horrible scratching noise coming from downstairs. My mind jumped to the marks on the wall.

  “What is that?”

  “The demonic entity. For once, I rather wish I hadn’t been right.”

  “I’m serious, Genie.”

  Jeanne swallowed. “So am I.”

  A crash echoed from the foyer, followed by what sounded like the last remnants of a human scream after your throat has been screamed raw. One last, final shriek that was practically a death rattle.

  Jeanne and I lost it. We both started screaming, too.

  Hand on the wall, ignoring the sensation of brushing against mildewy wallpaper and spider webs, I rushed down the main staircase as fast as my shaking legs would allow. The blood roaring in my ears blocked out the other grisly noises, noises I realized we were running right toward . . .

  The front door was right there. I could smell the fresh night air. Soon it would all be nothing but a bad memory.

  Then I stubbed my toe on a nail protruding from a floorboard and tripped right over.

  “Dang it, Tree!”

  I grabbed her hand and hauled myself to my feet, and—

  Wait. The hand was far too big to belong to Jeanne.

  I yelped and jumped away from the shadowy figure, back pressed against a wall. I couldn’t see Jeanne anywhere. Two silhouettes, coming closer and closer and closer and oh crap I was going to die and oh no oh no . . .