No! He almost said the word aloud.
He took a large swallow of stale coffee and sat back down on the chair. Concentrate on now, he advised himself. Think only of the present, forget about things that happened so long ago, things that made no sense. (But they did make sense, didn’t they, David? Everything that took place in that old house three years ago was perfectly, though peculiarly, logical. That is, if you believed in malign spirits.)
It was as if these words inside his head were spoken by another, and they were insidious, almost sly, a whispering that did not want him to forget; yet the tone was his, they were his own words, repeated often, lest reality and time diminish their significance.
Ash shivered, though it was not cold inside this room with its warm pipes and smell of fresh linen. Maybe he should leave these night-time surveillances to others, those more stable investigators or researchers who viewed these matters less emotively. As he once had. There were enough members of the Institute to cover such work, it hadn’t been necessary to take this one on alone. Yet it had been his idea, it was he who had suggested this solitary vigil to the owners of the Bonadventure Rest Home after a month’s investigation had proved futile. He had discovered no paranormal activity, no haunting - and no Sleep Angel.
The Sleep Angel. Harbinger of death, portent of doom. Or so the home’s old folk would believe.
A figure wearing a flowing gown that somehow glowed green had appeared before three of the oldest residents and informed them it was time for them to die. And they had followed the instructions, two of them a few days later, the third, it seemed, instantly. (One of the other residents, an elderly woman whose capricious bladder gave her cause to leave her room more than once a night, had witnessed the so-called ‘angel’ entering the dead man’s room as she was returning from the bathroom. She, herself, had scurried back to bed and pulled the covers over her head in case the visitor noticed her and decided to pay her a call too.) It was the first two who had recounted the Sleep Angel’s words to them, which they repeated until they, too, obeyed the instruction.
Claire and Trevor Penlock, the owners of the Bonadventure, had endeavoured to minimize the stories and to soothe their clients’ anxieties, but the residents had little else to do with their time but gossip and exaggerate, and the Penlocks feared that rumours about the home would soon spread. While deaths in such places, given the average age of the usual residents, were commonplace - if not expected - word that unearthly forces were actively encouraging the ‘passing on’ would definitely be harmful to the Bonadventure’s reputation. Reluctantly the Psychical Research Institute had been contacted and arrangements for a discreet but thorough investigation had been made.
Initially Ash had wondered if this seraphic spectre was some kind of contagious hallucination, first imagined by someone close to death (someone whose religious beliefs might well inspire visions of a heavenly guide to the next world), and he had spent time talking to the residents, gently probing but finding little evidence of mass hysteria, or even any great interest in the supernatural. Nor did he notice much senility among them. He also questioned the staff, from the matron, Penlock herself, to the junior care assistants and the cook, giving particular attention to the two senior care supervisors who alternated weekly on overnight duties. He checked that the building itself was secure at night and was satisfied that all windows and doors were either bolted or locked. Each night he installed tripod-mounted cameras with automatic detectors at the end of corridors and the main hallway as well as placing thermometers at certain strategic points to record any dramatic and unaccountable dips in temperature at any time. Outside the bedroom doors of the home’s most elderly residents, or of those whose health was vulnerable, he sprinkled powder so that footsteps, ethereal or physical, might show the following morning. He studied architectural drawings of the building itself, including those detailing recent renovations, and looked into its history, interested to learn of any past paranormal phenomena. All to no avail. No one, apart from the deceased and the old lady, had witnessed the manifestation, nothing was disturbed during the nights of his investigation, and the cameras only took pictures of the senior care supervisors making their night rounds or certain senior citizens visiting the bathrooms.
Yet Ash was not quite satisfied. Which was why he had suggested these further night-time vigils should be in secret. And on particular nights only.
Twice the matron had smuggled him into the home while the supervisor was busy on her evening rounds administering medicine, but already Ash was beginning to suspect it was all a waste of time.
On this night, however, his patience was to be rewarded.
He heard a noise from somewhere nearby. Silence followed.
He waited a few seconds longer, then slowly eased himself up so that the chair’s joints - or his own - made no sound. He tiptoed to the door and peered through the narrow gap.
Directly opposite was the lift that serviced all three of the home’s floors and to the right of this was a short wheelchair ramp, rather than steps, leading to another corridor where the central staircase was situated. He opened the door wider and stole a look outside: the corridor to his left was empty and all the bedroom doors appeared to be closed. Only the door to the bathroom was open.
He shut the laundry-room door, leaving a slight gap again, then slunk back into the gloom.
Another sound. It could be the building settling. Or it might be someone on the staircase around the corner from the ramp.
Ash moved even further back so that light from outside, dim though it was, would not shine on him. He became conscious of his own breathing.
He also became aware that the orange glow from the corridor’s night-lights was changing subtly; a soft greenness was merging into it.
His breathing stopped as a shape floated by the door.
Jessie Dimple woke suddenly. In her dream her limbs had been lithe, her skin had been smooth, and her heart had been alive with passion. She had been running through a field of buttercups, their brilliant yellow, against a background of vivid green, lifting her spirit so that each step was a graceful leap that became a wonderful arc, and soon she was floating, flying, always returning to the earth, to the flowers, but easily lifting again, up towards the clear sapphire sky, to soar then sink, soar then sink, in rainbow curves that grew longer and longer, higher and higher, until eventually she hardly touched the ground at all, she really was flying, flying towards -
She gave a moan, annoyed at her awakening, sad that she had once again became an aged crone whose bones were too brittle, whose skin was too wrinkled, and whose heart and soul were too wearied with the effort of life.
She lay propped up in bed by an A-pillow, the only way she could sleep these days without choking on her own throat fluids, and tried to remember. Ah, the dream … such a wonderful dream … where gravity and age held no sway and the body played servant to the spirit. The peace the dream had brought. The freedom …
But what had awoken her? It was still dark outside the window.
She stirred in the bed, but her blurry eyes could not see the face of the clock she kept on the bedside cabinet. She sank back and allowed her cloudy gaze to roam around the room, trying to remember if she had taken all her pills and medicines that day, the verapamil for her angina, the Sinemet for the Parkinson’s, the thioridazine for her confusion and the lactulose for her bowels. Yes, yes, the matron or the supervisor would have made sure of that. Indeed they would have teased her for knowing and demanding each prescription as though they were not up to their job. Well, Jessie had been a nurse during both world wars, when she was young … when she was young … so long ago, a lifetime ago … when Howard had been alive and the children … the children had loved her, had cared for her as she had cared so very much for them. But they had their own lives to live now, they couldn’t be spending all their hard-earned time with an old thing like her who had eighty-two years of life behind her, they couldn’t be visiting every day, every week, every month,
when they had their work - their very important work - to see to, their own lovely families to take care of … to cherish … as she cherished … them.
Moisture blurred her eyes now and the dark shape of the crucifix on the wall opposite became even more indistinct. With a quivering hand, Jessie lifted the edge of the top sheet to her eyes and softly wiped away the tears.
There now, you silly old thing. Getting more and more sentimental in your old age. Getting more and more daft. Well, they’ll be here tomorrow, if not, then the next day. They had busy lives. But they cared very much. Places like this were expensive, but they never grumbled. Her boys were good to her. But when had she seen them last? Had it been yesterday? No, no, the day before. Oh, you’re a stupid old biddy. It had been a long while ago, yes, a long while. A month? Longer, Jessie, much longer. They came when they could, though, and the wives and the grandchildren came with them. Not every time, but often. Occasionally. Sometimes. Well, what did young children - teenagers now, weren’t they, or were they even older than that? Hard to remember, hard to picture them - what did they want with horrible places like this? This was for old folk, not the young. The young didn’t like the smells and the sickness and the gibberish and the forgetfulness and the reminder of what one day would be their own lives. And that was hardly surprising. Why, if she had her own way, if she were not so useless and helpless, she would be elsewhere too!
Her dry, lipless mouth tilted to a smile. Elsewhere. Oh Jessie, there was only one other place for you, my girl. That is, if He wanted you. She closed her eyes and prayed that He did, and her thoughts of heaven were not unlike her dream.
She opened her eyes again when she sensed - not heard - the movement of the bedroom door.
The Sleep Angel was standing there in the opening, a green glow shading the whiteness of its flowing gown. Its face was in shadow, but Jessie knew its expression would be kind.
The angel came towards her, gracefully, quietly, and Jessie imagined it was smiling.
It spoke, so softly that Jessie barely heard the words, and it told her it was time to let go, that there was a better place waiting for her, where there was no pain and no sadness, and all she had to do was give up her spirit, discard her life …
And as it leaned towards her as if to kiss her toothless mouth, Jessie wondered if the smile was not a frown, if the frown was not a scowl, if the scowl was not a grimace of loathing. Jessie suddenly felt fear and something stiffened inside her bony chest, became tight yet seemed to expand, causing a pain that was worse than anything she had felt before. The hurt was outrageous, cruel, and had nothing to do with peaceful resignation.
As she clutched at her struggling heart she became aware that light was blazing above her and that another presence was in the room. The Sleep Angel was falling away from her and it was screaming … was screaming … was screaming as she, herself, was screaming …
3
YOU LOOK AS IF you’ve had a bad night.’ Kate McCarrick shuffled papers together and laid them to one side as Ash took a chair opposite her. He placed a plastic coffee cup on the edge of her desk, then fumbled in his jacket for cigarettes.
‘Bad morning,’ he told her, shaking one loose from the pack. ‘Any success?’
‘Not in the Institute’s terms. The Bonadventure isn’t haunted.’
Kate pushed back her chair and went to one of the grey filing cabinets situated between well-stocked bookshelves. She opened the B drawer. ‘I didn’t expect it to be. If the sightings had been by members of staff I might have given them a little more credence. Unfortunately elderly people are not always reliable as witnesses to the paranormal. Either their eyesight’s bad, or their imagination is over-active.’ She thumbed through the files and stopped when she reached the one marked Bonadventure Rest Home. Opening it, she returned to her desk. ‘You’ve done me a report?’ she said, looking up from the file at him.
He smiled wearily. ‘Sorry, Kate, I haven’t got round to it yet.’
She removed her reading glasses and studied him for a moment: his dark, tousled hair, pale, unshaven face, his rumpled clothes. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve asked a stupid question.’
He removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth and reached forward for the coffee. He sipped it before saying: ‘Busy night, busy morning. I’ll get a written report to you later today.’
‘No, you look as if you need some sleep. Tell me now, report me later.’
As he sipped again he wondered if Kate had a lover at present. She still looked good; her figure, although not as slim as it once was, was still seductive, her hair still had a natural sheen. Maybe the jaw was just a little less firm, and maybe there were a few more lines around her eyes than before, but Kate had an allure that not all women carried into their forties. He remembered the first time they had made love, her delicate softness then, the way her teeth had nipped at his flesh, how her lips had moistened every part of him.
‘David?’
‘Uh?’ He shook his head, clearing the memories, and as his gaze met hers he knew she had guessed his thoughts. Her tone was brisk and her frown drew fresh lines across her forehead. ‘I take it you’re not registering a paranormal incident.’
‘Afraid not.’ Ash put the coffee cup back on the desk and reached in his pocket for matches. He struck one and held it up to the cigarette between his lips; but it stayed poised as he stared into the tiny flame. He became aware that Kate was watching him and quickly lit the cigarette, hoping she had not noticed how his hand had trembled for a moment. ‘No, no ghost, although for a while there I wasn’t sure.’
She leaned forward, interested.
‘The residents were partially right,’ he went on. ‘There was a Sleep Angel stalking the corridors of the home, but it wasn’t what they imagined.’
‘Nevertheless it managed to frighten some of them to death.’
Ash shrugged. ‘Well, they died - two a couple of days later, the last one the same night. He died of a heart attack, although he’d been diagnosed as having cancer of the bowel only a short time before. He was in his late eighties and he was very ill - it wouldn’t have taken much to send him over.’ He exhaled smoke. ‘A cynic might even say his visitor did him a favour.’
She let it go. ‘The other two - what happened to them?’
‘They were both in their eighties, and their health wasn’t so good either. From what they told the matron afterwards it seemed their visitor convinced them it was time for the long sleep.’
‘It told them to die?’ Kate was startled.
‘Uh-huh. That’s why they called it the Sleep Angel. I suppose you could call it a kind of verbal euthanasia.’
‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘Wait till you’re old and tired and feel there’s nothing left to do with your life anymore.’
‘Every other day. So what or who was this agent for the afterlife? Did you see it last night?’
He looked around her desk for something to tap his cigarette into and Kate reached for the bin under the desk. She passed it over to him and he flicked ash before putting it by his chair. ‘Yes,’ he replied with a tired sigh, ‘it showed up all right. It was in the early hours of the morning, still dark, and I was watching from the home’s laundry room. They say old people or the very sick often pass away around that time - the body’s in its deepest state of unconsciousness about then - so I had a hunch something might happen around two or three. I also made sure I was hiding on the same floor as the oldest resident. Anyway, just after three o’clock something moved past the laundry-room door, something with a greenish glow to it.’ He scratched the stubble under his chin. ‘It scared the hell out of me when I took a peek into the corridor.’
‘Someone dressed up to frighten.’ Kate said it as a statement rather than a question.
‘Right. Or at least, to play the part. Flowing white gown, long, loose sleeves. And underneath the costume she’d taped those small luminous glow-tubes, you know the kind that kids play with on Hallowe’en? Clear plastic tubes
filled with a chemical liquid that shines in the dark.’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘She used them for effect, to give her an eerie kind of glow.’
‘She?’
He raised a hand briefly as if in resignation. ‘One of the senior care supervisors, a woman who’d been with the home for years.’
‘She must be a special kind of cruel bitch.’
‘I’m not so sure. The police and her employers are still trying to figure out if she frightened the old people out of malice because she was sick of them, or if she genuinely wanted to relieve their suffering by helping them on their way to something better.’
Kate sat back and absorbed what Ash had told her. ‘That’s awful,’ she concluded.
‘She frightened another choice candidate for heaven last night, but I got there before she could do too much damage. I just hope the old lady gets over the shock.’ He drank more coffee, drew on the cigarette, and smiled across the table at her. ‘So there you have it. I’m afraid it doesn’t help the Institute’s researches.’
‘We can live with that. Our task is to validate incidents of the paranormal or supernatural, but it’s almost as useful to expose false claims. In fact, it gives the organization more credibility when we do the latter; people might just understand we’re not here to support charlatans and cranks. I’m only sorry you spent so much time on this investigation. Tell me, did you suspect at the start that someone was playing games at the home?’ She instantly regretted her phrasing, for a disturbed, almost haunted look clouded Ash’s dark eyes. She quickly added: ‘Did you think the supervisor was involved somehow?’
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 2