Ellen Preddle had looked far from well when she had opened the door to him earlier. The darkness around her eyes had increased noticeably and even before he’d reached the doorstep the wildness of her expression was apparent. Perversely, the hands that had never been still on their first meeting now remained motionless by her side, and her shoulders appeared even more slouched. She wore the same flower-patterned dress and, despite the heat of the day, the same thin cardigan. Her hair was untidier, the black-grey locks tangled and dishevelled. To his surprise, she allowed him into the house without question.
As he set up various pieces of equipment he’d explained their functions, but she had sat in the armchair by the empty hearth, disinterested and barely looking at him whenever he asked a direct question, her replies mumbled, almost unintelligible. Later he’d been relieved when he had suggested she retire to her bed for the night and she rose without demur, going straight to the stairs. Ash had to call out instructions for her not to leave her room during the night and the only response had been the closing of her door. Since then there had not been a sound from upstairs.
He yawned and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Tiredness, usually enhanced by boredom, was often the first hurdle to be overcome and no matter what hour the watch had begun, drowsiness generally hit around midnight or shortly after; tonight the tiredness had probably struck a little earlier because of the previous bad night. He dogged the cigarette and resisted the urge to light another; instead he reached around to his jacket hanging over the back of his chair and drew out the hip flask from a side pocket. He unscrewed the lid and took a light sip, just enough to revive him. When tiredness returned later, as it always did, he would take another nip and so on through the night until the early hours.
Flask still in one hand, he idly picked up a pencil and began to draw a rough sketch of the kitchen, working out the apparent trajectory of the saucer that allegedly had flown from the shelf and cracked against Grace Lockwood’s forehead before shattering on the tiled floor. The drawing was merely for the record, for without an independent witness it could not be registered as a paranormal occurrence; it also served to occupy his mind for a short while.
As he worked he noticed a vapour mist was forming each time he breathed out.
He straightened, realizing just how cool the night air had become. He felt an itch on his bare arms as the hairs there began to stiffen. It wasn’t merely cooler - it had become decidedly cold.
Ash rolled down his shirtsleeves and looked around the room while he buttoned them. The temperature drop was unreasonable unless the climate outside had suddenly altered, and he started to rise with the intention of checking the thermometer on the stairs.
It was as he pushed back the chair that he heard a dull thud from upstairs.
He remained still, holding his breath and listening. Was Ellen Preddle awake and moving about? It was possible; the poor woman looked as though she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. But the noise had sounded as if it had come from directly overhead. From the bathroom.
Ash looked at the monitor screen. All was still in the bathroom. There were no extraneous shadows and nothing was out of place. Something caught his eye though, but this was not on the screen. This was on the staircase a few feet away from him.
The talcum powder he had spread on the stairs earlier was beginning to billow as though a draught had disturbed it.
He held his breath as the fine powder swirled languidly into the air. When it had risen to a height of two or more feet, Ash went to the camera containing infra-red film, his movement easy and his senses alert, all boredom and tiredness driven off.
He pressed the shutter release, the click, followed by the fast whir of the camera’s electric motor as it wound on the film, extraordinarily loud in the quietness of the night. He took three more shots as the powder-mist spread along the steps, now dropping in height but becoming thicker, its motion growing more rapid as if impelled by something more than a draught. Within seconds it was dense. Like driven smoke, it began to take on a direction, rising again, but keeping low to the stairs, surging over each one in undulating waves. Upwards it poured, twisting at the bend, a long vaporous stream that flowed and rippled, eventually trailing off on the lower steps, leaving them clear.
Its ragged end was disappearing into the upper reaches when he decided to act. He hurried forward, pausing at the first stair before continuing, then climbing at a slower, more cautious, pace. He had reached the stair over which the thin black cotton had been stretched when a terrible, heart-stopping scream shattered the silence.
It had the sound of an animal in mortal terror and Ash reeled back against the staircase wall in surprise. The scream persisted, filling the air, reaching a shattering pitch before abruptly ending. An eerie silence followed in its wake, and then footsteps pounded along the landing over his head. Shadows shifted on the wall by the bend in the stairs and bright flashes were reflected off its surface. He shrank back.
Oh dear God, he didn’t want to go up there. He didn’t want to see whatever had made that awful and piteous scream. His shoulder slid against the wooden wall as he retreated a step. He hadn’t been prepared for this, for even though he had been forced to confront horrors that had chilled his very soul in the past, the scream he had just heard had left him in a state of shock. But it was not only the scream, for a mood of dreadful and debilitating menace had seeped into the atmosphere as if from the walls of the cottage itself. And as it held him there, afraid, unable to move any further, the noxious stench of corruption drifted down from the floor above.
His whole body flinched at the next scream, but this time the sound was different: it was the distressed cry of a woman in terrible torment. He knew it had come from Ellen Preddle, and as a crash and more screams came to him, he knew he had to help her, he couldn’t let her face whatever had manifested itself up there alone. Ash forced himself away from the wall and the moment he did so his resolve strengthened. He tore up the stairs, unknowingly breaking the cotton thread as he went, stumbling as he rounded the bend and bruising a shin. He kept going, avoiding the trailing wires and quickly reaching the narrow landing. The stench struck him almost like a physical blow and he turned his head to one side, grabbing the banisters to steady himself as he retched.
Ash straightened when another crash came from the bathroom and he saw the Polaroid camera tilt on its tripod and come to rest in a corner. Square sheets of scattered film lay on the floor before it, along with the capacitance detector. Shadows danced as the ceiling light swung to and fro and Ellen Preddle, alone in the bathroom, flailed her arms in the air, screeching and clawing her hands, grabbing at nothing, eyes wide with madness, lips curled back from her teeth, cheeks wet with tears and with drool.
‘Leave him be!’ she screeched. ‘Don’t you touch him!’
Ash approached the doorway more slowly, his footsteps deliberate, his body tense, his nerves screaming. He stepped over the camcorder and tripod on the floor of the landing, the wire to the monitor downstairs pulled from its socket.
‘Leave him!’ Her words were drawn out, a wail of despair.
Untouched, the thermometer that had been standing on the sink suddenly shot across the room to crack against the dark windowpane before falling to the linoleum floor. Almost immediately, the bathroom cabinet dropped from the wall and burst open in the sink beneath it, its contents spilling out, pill bottles and cardboard containers falling onto the floor to be caught up in Ellen Preddle’s mad dance.
Ash rushed forward, catching the frenzied woman. But she turned on him, clawed fingers reaching for his face, his eyes. He caught her wrists and held her hands away from him.
‘Stop!’ he shouted at her. ‘Calm down!’
Her eyes showed no recognition: they were blind with a rage so fierce he knew she would try to harm him. Spittle flew into his face and he turned his head aside, the strain of holding her there causing his arms to shake, his neck muscles to tighten.
And as he turned
he saw the turbulence in the bath. He saw the faint form beneath the murky, frothing waters. He saw the face of a child, its mouth open, its eyes wide.
And the boy’s filth-smeared hand broke through the scum that floated on the surface and his fingers were spread and trembling as if reaching for Ash, reaching for life itself.
23
THERE WERE FEW LIGHTS on in the village. Most people were deep in sleep; it was the others, the insomniacs, who felt the sudden coolness in the night air - an unexpected shiver, a stiffness in their bones, goosebumps on their flesh, made them aware. These unfortunates quickly hurried to their beds or, if already there, wrapped bedclothes tightly around themselves.
The main street and the small lanes leading off it were all empty. Even the bats that inhabited the community hall’s various roofs had not ventured out on their usual nocturnal forage. And even the disturbance inside the little terraced cottage in the lane leading up to the church was tightly contained within its own walls. All was very quiet.
A partial moon revealed the stocks and whipping post that stood on the dulled village green, but the blackish fluid that oozed from the tiny fissures in the post’s aged wood would have been imperceptible to any observer who might have been abroad that night. The pond nearby was still and impenetrable, a brooding mass that reflected nothing.
Yet now something did move across this bleak landscape. A small, lone creature glided through the grass, its pointed snout held high every few yards to sniff at the air. It was a cautious beast, mindful of the loathing it generated, and its stiffened fur bristled with tension. It reached the water’s edge and it became immobile, as if mesmerized. Its sharp little eyes glazed.
With a thin squeal of alarm the rat jerked away from the water, spinning as it did so, its long tail flicking the filmy surface and causing sluggish ripples that quickly settled as they spread. It streaked through the grass and back across the road, a swift shadow among still shadows. In an instant it was gone - gone to join fellow creatures skulking in the cellars of the old inn.
Nothing else stirred. The village slept. But the dreams of the villagers were not peaceful.
Tom Ginty jerked awake. His senses took a few seconds to follow.
He lay there in the bed, blinking, his wife Rosemary snoring beside him. What had awoken him? His beefy hand slid from beneath the sheets and touched the numbness of his right cheek. That was it! It had felt like someone had slapped him while he slept! He raised his head from the pillow and looked at Rosemary.
She was just an inert lump lying next to him. A big lump and not quite so inert: the sheets swelled and fell in rhythm with her breathing. She snuffled halfway through a snore and he resisted the urge to slap her in return, even though the slap she’d dealt him had obviously been an accident. She’d probably bashed him as she’d turned over in her sleep. Hold on though - she was facing away from him, and her fat arms were under the bedsheets. She couldn’t have hit him. Unless she’d been tossing and turning. Silly bloody cow. Obviously she’d had a nightcap before she’d come up to bed, a drop of port. Or two. And bet she’d had a snack, bet she’d noshed some cheese. By Christ, cheese and port! No wonder she was restless.
Something brushed against the thin strands of hair plastered down over his scalp.
He shot up in bed, raising a hand to his head as he did so. What was that? The bedsheets slid over his belly onto his lap. With a speed unusual for such a big man he plunged for the bedside lamp. A moment of fumbling before the light snapped on.
‘Who’s there?’ he said aloud.
But he could see for himself: there was no one there.
He turned to his wife again and pulled a face when her continued snores assured him she had not been disturbed. About to prod her, he became aware of how cold it was in the bedroom and he pulled the sheets up to his bare, breasty chest, holding them there as a maiden aunt in fear of losing her virginity to a night prowler might. He looked about the room, searching the shadowy corners.
‘Ridiculous,’ he informed himself. Apart from Rose and himself the room was empty. He glanced up at the ceiling almost expecting to find a spider at the end of a silken thread hovering over him, as shocked as he at their contact. There wasn’t one there, of course, and even if a spider had run across the top of his head it could hardly have slapped his face! He smoothed down his hair with the palm of his hand, making sure there was nothing playing among the sparse strands. Must have been a dream. Nobody had touched him. His hair? A draught, nothing more than that. The inn was full of sneaky draughts. Yet his cheek still felt numb. And he couldn’t feel any draughts now, even though the room was chilly.
The end of the bedstead began to vibrate. Not much, quite gently.
He watched it quiver, incomprehension lodged on his broad face, and it was a few moments before he murmured, ‘Oh my Lord, there’s someone under the bed.’
He leapt out and two fast steps took him over to the cedar tallboy standing against the wall. One hand held it for support while the other clutched at his pyjama bottoms to keep them up.
‘Rosemary!’ he hissed. His wife snored on.
He stared into the shadow between the overhanging bedsheet and the carpeted floor. Was there someone underneath? Impossible. How could anyone get into the bedroom? There was only one guest staying at the inn at present and as far as Ginty knew he hadn’t returned that evening. An odd chap all right, and an acquaintance of the vicar, which made him even odder. But he couldn’t have got into the room anyway, because the bedroom door was locked from the inside, a habit of many landlords who didn’t trust strangers under their roofs.
The bedstead stopped quivering.
Ginty doubled up, bending as low as he could - an awkward position for someone of his build - to peer into the darkness beneath the bed. He still couldn’t see anything. He got down on his hands and knees and inched closer, his nose almost touching the floor. He could smell the dust in the carpet, the mustiness that wafted out from under the bed. It was too gloomy there to make out anything at all.
He crawled even closer and with a hand that shook just a little he grasped the loose sheet. With a sharp intake of air he whipped the sheet upwards. As he did so, the whole bed began to rock violently.
Rosemary woke with a start. And when she realized what was happening to the bed she let out a shriek. And when she saw her husband’s disembodied head, half of it in shadow, peering over the edge of the bed at her, his eyes and mouth wide with fright, her shriek waxed into a scream.
In a split second she was out of the bed and across the other side of the room where she wrapped the window drapes around herself as if for protection. Her husband rose from the floor and rapidly backed away from the oscillating bed. They both stared in disbelief at it and Rosemary wailed: ‘What’s happening, Tom? Why’s it doing that?’
But Ginty had no answer. Nor did he intend to find out. He edged around the tallboy, making for the door, never once taking his eyes off the phenomenon in the centre of the room.
‘Tom!’
Rosemary’s hairnet had somehow snagged against the thick curtain material so that locks of unnaturally blonde hair fell over her pencilled eyebrows. Her eyes were daring her husband to leave her alone in that room with the crazed bed and when she realized that was precisely what he intended to do, the daring switched to pleading. He was by the door now, his fingers fumbling behind his back for the key in the lock.
He found it, gripped it, and was about to twist, when the tallboy to his left leaned away from the wall. It balanced there impossibly, unsupported, neither standing nor falling. Only when Rosemary screamed again did it topple. The two drawers slid forward as the chest struck the bed, the first one shedding its contents so that socks and handkerchiefs jigged on the sheets. Both pieces of furniture shook and quivered, their movements becoming more elaborate by the moment, more excessive, the legs of the bedstead practically leaving the floor. Their thumping sounds almost drowned out Rosemary’s moaning.
Ginty wheeled
round and turned the key. He pulled open the door and as Rosemary screamed at him not to leave her, the wardrobe, which stood facing the end of the bed, joined the frenzy. Its door sprung open, clothing tumbled out.
The landlord thought he saw moving shadows outside in the gloomy corridor, but when he blinked they stabilized, became normal shadows.
From behind him came a strangulated ‘Tom!’
With an expression of misery mixed with panic, he rushed out into the corridor and slammed the door behind him. But as he held on to the handle, pulling the door tight, everything became quiet once again. In fact, the silence was so immediate and so absolute it was almost as scary as the noise itself.
A muted sobbing came to him through the wood as he waited shivering in the cold corridor. Tentatively - and shamefacedly - he opened the door again and peeked inside.
The bed was still, and so was the tallboy leaning against it. The wardrobe was motionless although at an angle to the wall; fallen clothes jammed its door open. Nothing moved in the bedroom. Nothing except Rosemary’s plump shoulders as she wept against the curtains.
The millwheel creaked. For the first time in many years it protested at the pull of the river even though the current was sluggish. And then it groaned, a sonorous complaint that disturbed the stillness of the night. If anyone had been about in Sleath’s High Street at that hour, or on the nearby bridge that served as portal to the village, then they might have thought they had heard the moaning of someone in deep pain; but no one was, so no one heard.
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 19