The Ghosts of Sleath

by James Herbert

  The reason was soon apparent, for the ceiling flickered with an orange glow and a muffled crackling sound came from outside the window. It was not the noise, nor the soft reflections on the ceiling, but the sensing of something wrong that had roused her. She lay there and watched the dancing light, afraid not for herself, but for Sam and the people of Sleath, for her own imminent death - oh yes, she knew the emphysema had withered the tissues of her lungs beyond repair and that she was not long for this world - had somehow drawn her mind closer to mysteries that in normal life she would not even have considered. Sleath had changed. Or regressed.

  She pondered that thought and could not understand how it had come to her, or even what it meant. In close proximity to the mysteries she might be, but they were still just that - unknown and unimaginable. They could only be sensed.

  She heard a noise from the other side of the room and in the wavering glow she saw the bedroom door begin to open. Nellie clutched at the bedclothes as a figure stood in the door-way, silhouetted by the feeble night-light from the passage; she let her breath go when she recognized her husband, dressed in the same old flannel nightshirt he’d worn for bed for the past twenty years or more, the one that reached almost to his ankles.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’ she asked and he knew what she was referring to.

  His voice was as gruff as usual, but at least - and she guessed this was in deference to her poor health rather than any trepidation he might have - he made the effort to keep it calm. ‘You know what it is, Nell,’ he answered, moving to the foot of the bed.

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘No, you jus’ rest there. It’s turned cold tonight, no sense in you gettin chilled.’

  ‘Sam, I want to.’ She was already pulling the blanket and sheet aside.

  He hurried to her. ‘Now, Nellie, we don’t want you upset, do we?’

  ‘Of course we don’t, Sam, an’ I won’t be. But it’s never been as bright as this before. I want to see it for myself.’

  ‘Let me get your dressin gown, then. You’ll need sommat aroun your shoulders.’

  The dressing gown was lying over a chair nearby and Sam quickly swung it over her shoulders as she rose from the bed. Together they approached the orange-tinged window.

  Sam Gunstone felt Nellie stiffen beneath his protective arm.

  ‘Oh Sam, it’s so clear. It’s as though there really is somethin burnin out there.’

  ‘There’s nothin there to burn - the field’s empty. No, that’s the same haystack George Preddle went to hell in.’ His arm tightened around her. ‘What’s goin on, Nell, what’s happenin to this place?’

  She had never heard that kind of fear in his voice before, save for when Dr Stapley had explained her illness to them both and Sam had asked if she would ever be all right again. Her arm slipped around his waist and she looked up into his face. She saw the tiny flames reflected in his eyes and shuddered.

  It was when they heard the faint but eerie strains of laughter coming from the ghostly conflagration that Sam Gunstone led Nellie away from the window. He drew her to the rumpled bed and helped her climb in; then he joined her and pulled the bedclothes over their heads.

  It had been a long time since they had clung to each other so tightly.

  There had been no sleep for Ruth Cauldwell that night.

  She lay in her bed, the bedroom door ajar so that light from the passageway could shine in. It was an inadequate light, one that created shadows rather than defined objects. The room was cold, but that was not the reason for Ruth wearing a night-gown buttoned to her neck, for the evening had been warm, sultry even, when she had made herself ready for bed; she wore a nightdress because she was ashamed of her body.

  Ruth clutched a tissue that was crumpled and damp from the tears she had cried through the long dark hours, and she rested on her side, her body curled up almost into a foetal position. Her mother and younger sister, Sarah, were down the passage in her parents’ bedroom, sleeping together in mutual comfort because the police had taken Ralph Cauldwell away the day before. Ruth had not wanted to join them and her mother had not pressed her. Yesterday Ruth was sure she had caught unguarded accusation in her mother’s eyes just after the police had led Daddy from the house, a glare that had seemed to blame her for his arrest. It was fleeting, the accusation never voiced, and her mother had turned away, head bowed, offering no soft words of consolation or understanding. And Ruth had then, as she had since, desperately needed both.

  It was her fault that Danny Marsh was in hospital, disfigured and close to death, it was her fault that Daddy was locked up on a charge of attempted murder. Her fault because it was her guilt that had brought Munce back, and her hysteria that had confused her father. When she had staggered home, her clothes dishevelled, her face and arms bleeding, forehead bruised and swollen, all he’d understood from her incoherent babbling was Danny’s name and so, full of rage, he had rushed off, ignoring her pleas to stay with her. He had driven to the village and found poor, poor Danny …

  Ruth held the tissue against her mouth to stifle her sob. Why wouldn’t it stop? Why was she being punished so? No, it wasn’t just her who was being punished, it was her father, and Danny … But they weren’t to blame for what had happened all those years ago. It was her fault … her fault … her filth …

  She kicked out in the bed in frustration and in hatred for herself. Her fist came down hard on the pillow. She straightened and rolled onto her back, her body stiff, rigid, her mind a turmoil of bitter self-recriminations. And at first Ruth did not notice that the room was no longer merely cold, but was freezing; if it had been lighter in there, she would have observed the mist expelled from her mouth each time she exhaled. But gradually, as the chill seeped into her bones, she became aware. As she became aware, also, of the stench that had crept into the house.

  It was the sickly-sweet aroma of putrefaction and rot, the stench that always came with Munce …

  She could not move. This time the fear, this appalling limb-freezing terror, held her in its grip. She stretched her mouth to call out to her mother, perhaps even to scream, but the muscles of her throat were locked tight too. Her flesh tickled - not pleasantly though - where tiny bumps rose, and her skin stippled, hardened. She lay in the darkness, motionless and as cold as stone.

  Ruth did not see him, for she did not want to take her gaze from the ceiling. At first she sensed his presence, then caught a movement of shadows in the periphery of her vision. Still she refused to look, even when a darker mass skulked around the bed towards her, for she knew that this time he was more than an apparition, more than an immaterial shape from a nightmare, now he had form, he had substance, he had strength.

  And she was aware that her paralysis was self-inflicted, that if she really wanted to move - if she had the courage to - then nothing could keep her there against her will. But the undeniable truth was that Ruth chose to remain perfectly still. Because if she did move - a millimetre, an inch - then Munce would be very, very angry, just as he had been all those years ago if she moved, or struggled, when they played the game, the dirty, secret game …

  He was close to her, she could feel the fetid air expelled from those wet corrupted lips on her cheek. Every sinew in her body tightened, every nerve tingled; her neck quivered against the pillow as the scream locked inside her throat strained to break free. It seemed as if tiny shocks were running through her in waves, every part of her recoiling. She felt a weight on the bed; she felt something slither beneath the sheet.

  And then the cold, lifeless fingers touched her flesh.

  Her mouth stretched wider, her lips pulling back over her teeth, and her neck arched off the pillow; but still no scream came.

  The icy hand slid across to her stomach, the mouldered fingertips rough against her skin. It lingered there.

  Ruth’s eyelids drooped, but did not close completely. She wanted to cry out for her mother, for her father, but she knew she could not. What was happening to her was too indecent, too squ
alid, too … too … secret. They mustn’t know, they mustn’t find out.

  She felt the hand shedding skin and tiny bits of putrid flesh as it searched further. The fingers undulated slowly, caressingly, over her ribcage and paused beneath the swelling that was her breast.

  His stinking breath quickened and was harsh against her cheek and neck.

  The hand rose with the flesh and its dead fingers closed around her hardened nipple. She drew in a gasping breath as the hand became a claw that squeezed the softness around the erect tip and even though the pain soon became unbearable she still could not move.

  The agony stopped when the hand abruptly slipped away to return to her stomach. Ruth thought she could hear his moaning, but the screaming inside her own head was so intense she could not be sure. Could a dead thing make sounds? Could a dead thing feel?

  The weight lay upon her like some small but heavy beast in repose and for one foolish moment she thought the worst might be over. She waited and she hoped.

  But the hand became restless again.

  It moved down to the hairs that rose from the hollow between her legs, burrowing through them, palm flat against her skin, fingers probing and pointing the way. Munce’s wrist and arm pressed into her belly, gliding on a trail of slime. His fingertips dipped and slowly, ever so slowly, sank into her body.

  The sky was gradually beginning to brighten in the east, a widening vignette of light outlining the contours of the hills. Animal life began to rouse; birds spread their wings, readying themselves for dawn flight. Although night-chilled, the air was not refreshed; there was a staleness over Sleath that the coming day’s heat would only augment. There was no breeze, nor would there be later.

  The carrion crow was in flight long before its fellow creatures, for the deeper pre-dawn greys served its purpose: they cloaked its own predatory blackness.

  Its prey was easy to find and the bird swooped into the cover of tall oak, to become invisible among the shadows of the tree’s leafy branches. It watched a point high in the rising buttress of the old church tower, for inside a hole created up there by dislodged stones, black redstarts had built their nest of grass and feathers. Soon the adult birds left their chicks in search of food.

  The crow wasted no time; it soared, then swooped down onto the buttress, squeezing its big body into the hole where the young chicks stretched their necks and opened their beaks expectantly. One by one the predator tore off their heads, killing them all before sinking its dagger-like bill into the bloody, open wounds to feed on succulent, moist flesh.

  Mickey Dunn was shivering with fear and anxiety as much as from the cold. His clothes were damp with pre-dawn dew, his hair was matted and dirty, his leather jacket scratched and his jeans torn by the branches and brambles he had stumbled through last night after he had killed the gamekeeper. His eyes were bloodshot from rubbing, his eyelids red from crying.

  Oh shit, shit, shit, what had he done? Weren’t his fault. He hadn’t known old Buckler was there in the woods. He’d shot the quarrel at the thing in front of him, the bloody mist-thing with all those other things inside. He hadn’t meant to kill the gamekeeper. Hadn’t hardly seen him, he was just a sort of blurry shape on the other side. But Mickey had heard him sure enough when the arrow went off and Buckler had screamed, and he’d seen him all right when the mist-thing had immediately vanished to reveal the gamekeeper staggering around the clearing like some drunken fool, with the arrow poking from his chest. Oh shit, shit. Buckler was dead, for sure. He’d made a funny gurgling-rattling noise when he’d collapsed to his knees, and then nothing when he’d toppled onto his face, pushing the arrow further in. Nothing. No groaning, no squirming, no breathing.

  Mickey shuddered and drops of water were shaken from the leaves he crouched beneath. They fell onto his neck and he hastily wiped them away with a grubby hand. He drew himself in, clutching his raised knees with his arms, the loaded cross-bow still gripped tightly in one clenched fist. The last two nights had been the worst he had ever known. Even worse than the time the Old Man had locked him in the bomb shelter at the bottom of the garden for the night. The concrete pit was a leftover from the war, built by his grandfather, who thought the German bombers had a special mission to kill him in particular; it had been a great joke among the villagers, but even funnier was the fact that Grandad had died of a heart attack when rejoicing the end of the war by over-strenuously ringing the church bells. Afterwards the bomb shelter had been used by Mickey’s father as an apple store, and these days Mickey hid his poacher’s gains in there. But one night, the night in question, when Mickey was eleven years of age, the Old Man had locked him inside the shelter - the pit, the cell, the bloody tomb! - for some mischief or other, stealing probably, and left him there till the next morning. Mickey had wailed to be let out and he had screamed when he heard the rats scrabbling around in the pitch black and he had screamed and screamed some more when one of the creatures had run across his lap. But still Dad had not come back and unlocked the door, probably because by that time he was asleep in the armchair in his usual drunken stupor (Mickey’s mother had long since run off with the tally-man, who had called weekly for the payment on the living-room suite). He wouldn’t have heard much anyway, nor would the neighbours, because the walls of the shelter were eight inches thick. When the door had been opened the following morning, Mickey had rushed out, white-faced, and had thrown himself into his father’s arms, swearing he would never be bad again, he would never take another thing that didn’t belong to him, and for a moment, just for the merest fraction in time, he had been held close against his father’s chest, something Mickey had never experienced before or since. He had been quickly thrust away with a curt admonishment, but not before he’d looked up and caught the shock and shame in the Old Man’s face.

  Without doubt, being locked up all night inside that shelter had been traumatic - he’d suffered nightmares for years after - but these last two nights, oh these last two nights, had been far worse. For in the dark the woods were as frightening as any hole in the ground. Instead of rats there had been the sounds of other creeping creatures, and instead of total, blanketing blackness there had been deep shadows that seemed to move, seemed to come close, seemed to reach out to him. And there had been different kinds of stirrings at the edge of his vision, shapes that seemed to duck away or fade when he turned quickly in their direction.

  And, of course, there was the knowledge of what he’d done, the murder he had committed, there to haunt him through the long hours of waiting. Would anyone believe his story? Would anyone believe he had seen ghosts in the woods, demons that writhed and moaned and made horrible noises inside that mist-thing? He was a poacher who had been caught red-handed by the gamekeeper - that’s what they’d believe. Who would take the word of someone who had been in trouble all his young life, of a tearaway with an old soak for a father and a slut of a mother who had run off with the tally-man? (Oh, Mum, why did you leave? Was it because I was always stealin and gettin into fights? Didn’t you take me with you because I was bad and nothin but trouble since the day I was born, as the Old Man always said?) You shot poor Jack Buckler because you knew it’d be prison for you this time, the villagers would say. You killed an innocent man going about his duty because even if you ran away you knew he’d recognized you, the police would tell him. Lock him up, not just overnight, but for good, the judge would order. (Please, Dad, couldn’t I hide in the bomb shelter till they’d stopped lookin for me and gone away? I wouldn’t scream no more, I wouldn’t howl, I’d stay still and quiet even if the rats ran all over me body, even if they started eatin me, nippin off one finger at a time, bitin into me belly and gorgin on me insides, I wouldn’t even cry, not till the police had left, and you unlocked the door again and held me against your chest, jus’ for moment like before, jus’ for a tiny little second, you wouldn’t have to be ashamed, you wouldn’t have to feel sorry, you wouldn’t even have to like me, Dad, you wouldn’t even have to love …)

  Mickey�
�s eyes blinked open and his head snapped up. Bloody hell, he’d almost fallen asleep. Can’t do that. Not here. Got to move on.

  He parted the leaves and they trembled along with his hands. He saw the dim shapes of trees and shrubbery. Then something more, something big and grey in the distance, through the trees. It was a building, had to be. But what …?

  He realized where he was. Still on the Lockwood Estate. He’d run as far away from the body as he could, hiding at any sounds or signs of life, sleeping rough, moving on again, and still he was on the same land, the same estate. And that place through the trees was the old burned-out manor house.

  They’d never find him there, they wouldn’t even think of it. And even if they did, there were plenty of little hidey-holes inside. Hadn’t he done just that when he was a kid, played hide-’n’-seek in the ruins? Only once though. Hadn’t liked it much and nor had the other kids. Everyone said it was haunted, that place. But that’s all they were then, just kids: they believed those things. He wasn’t a kid anymore, though. That ruin meant shelter. He could rest up there for a while and find food - berries and suchlike - in the woods when he felt sure it was safe. There was plenty to eat off the land if you knew what to look for, Lenny and Den had taught him that. He had his cross-bow - he could bag a rabbit or a bird, build a small fire in the cellar of the manor house, and cook whatever he’d caught. Nobody’d see the smoke, not out here, not even if it came up through the floors. Nobody ever came this way, not even the stupid old vicar who owned the place. Nobody liked this part of Sleath. He could hide out for a few days, then sneak back home - the police would be well gone by then, thinking he’d hiked it to London or up North - and get some proper food and a bit of cash. Dad wouldn’t turn him in, even if Grover and Crick would. Oh yeah, they’d have sung all right. The police would have known poachers were involved as soon as they’d found his quarrel sticking out of Jack Buckler’s chest and it wouldn’t have taken them long to figure out who owned the weapon once they’d questioned two known villains like Lenny Grover and Dennis Crick.