The Ghosts of Sleath

by James Herbert

  ‘Bastids,’ he murmured, tenderly touching his swollen nose and lip.

  Mickey rose from his crouched position and, bent almost double, shuffled out from the leafy shelter. Leaves wiped their moisture on his jacket and a thin tendril slid across his cheek, causing him to flinch and quickly brush it aside. Once free of the bush, he stretched his limbs and took in great gulps of air. He scratched an itch in his hair, his dirty fingernails raking a tiny insect that had crawled into what must have seemed like a safe, lush abode equipped with its own ground-floor blood bank. Mickey squinted, peering through the breaks in the trees to scrutinize the great grey shape in the distance.

  It’d be okay in there. He could stay as long as he liked and nobody would be the wiser. They wouldn’t be sniffing around much longer, they couldn’t afford the time, not even for a murder, and especially not if they thought he’d already done a flit.

  He started walking towards the derelict building, flexing his shoulders as he went, crossbow in one hand, its safety on.

  Christ, he was hungry. But couldn’t take no chances. Got to stay hidden, maybe till evening. There’d be plenty of rabbits about then. Probably kill three or four before they cottoned on they were being slaughtered. Stupid bloody animals. He kept his mind busy thinking such things, for they pushed worse thoughts to the back of his mind, if only for short snatches.

  When he came to the road - a wide, hardened-mud track, in reality - Mickey moved alongside it, keeping to its bordering fringe of trees and undergrowth. The gutted shell that had once been a grand mansion soon loomed up before him and he paused on the edge of the large but overgrown clearing it dominated. He gaped up at the empty black windows and something inside him seemed to recede; it was as if a part of him - his own bravado, perhaps - had shrivelled at the sight of Lockwood Hall. He had never liked this place.

  The open doorway at the top of the steps was as dark and uninviting as the windows, but he knew this was his only refuge. At least inside here he could light a fire and be warm for the next night or two - even if it was summer the nights had turned cool lately. He could keep the flames low and roast a rabbit or a bird without worrying about the smells and the brightness. He hesitated a while longer, then with a shrug that was strictly for his own benefit, he left the cover of the woods and ambled towards the grim sanctuary.

  His soggy sneaker was on the first leaf-blown step when he heard the tinkling sound of music. At least, he thought he’d heard it for, as he paused, nothing more came to his ears save for the far-distant kaa of a crow. It must have been his imagination. He’d hardly slept for two nights, he was tired, hungry - and he was scared, for Christ’s sake. His mind might be playing all sorts of tricks. A draught inside must have disturbed some broken glass or something. Hadn’t sounded like glass though. More like one of them old pianos, one of them little things that played like a music box rather than a proper instrument. And there was no wind to cause a draught anyway. So it had to be his imagination.

  Mickey continued climbing the steps and the music seemed to return with every one he took. He stopped before the high, open portal and listened again. No, there was nothing. Birds were waking up nearby, that’s all it was. He was so exhausted he couldn’t tell one sound from another. This place had been empty for over two hundred years, ever since the big fire the villagers still talked about. He was giving himself the jitters. Anyway, even if it was haunted - like some of them same villagers said - ghosts couldn’t harm you. Everyone knew that. Ghosts couldn’t do anything at all except stand around looking miserable.

  Mickey tried to laugh, but his lip throbbed and the only sound he made was a kind of clucking at the back of his throat.

  He raised the crossbow to his chest, holding it with both hands and pointing it at the unlit opening in front of him. He approached it cautiously and only silence greeted him as he entered.

  A small, solitary figure crossed the stone bridge and walked along Sleath’s High Street towards the village green. There was a deliberate purpose to the man’s step, although it was by no means brisk - he had spent the night watching the village from a distance and at his age damp sank into his bones as easily as ink into a blotter. The collar of his tweed jacket was turned up and his narrow-brimmed hat was pulled down low over his forehead. The soft, sanguine flush of dawn on the undulating horizon was reflected in Seamus Phelan’s grey-green eyes.

  Another fine day ahead, he thought to himself as he reached the point where the short High Street branched into two roads around the green and its pond. A fine day, to be sure, but perhaps not so fine for the people hereabouts.

  The night was slow in fading, despite the warm glow over the hilltops, its darkness still loured over the village like an oppressive mantle. The little man looked around him before crossing the road junction, peering at windows as if searching for signs of life. How many of you are still sleeping? he wondered. How many of you have slept at all? There were bad goings-on last night, terrible things were stirring here in Sleath. Did you feel them, dream them? Did they visit you? Yes, it would be a fine summer’s day, but there would be a fatigue on the faces of the villagers. And bewilderment, no doubt. And a bit of fear. Ah, yes, there’d be some of that all right.

  He crossed to the small space designated a carpark and noticed the red Ford he had observed yesterday. His attention swept towards the inn on the other side of the road.

  ‘I’ll be paying you a visit later, m’lad,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘We’ve much to talk about. But I’ll not disturb you at this ungodly hour - you’ll need all the rest you can get if you’re to face what’s to come.’ Assuming you managed to catch any sleep last night, that is, he thought.

  He eased his way through the few cars parked there and stepped onto the grass. He saw that the pond’s surface was placid, reflecting the blackness overhead; he was reluctant to look too deeply into the stagnant waters, but his eyes were unwillingly drawn towards it. ‘No,’ he commanded himself sternly, determinedly pointing his face towards the bench and the great venerable elm near the other end of the green. ‘I’ve no great desire to be gazing into your murky depths at this hour of the day,’ he said as if to the pond itself, but something at the water’s edge caught his eye. Ah, just a yellow plastic duck caught in the reeds. Nothing sinister about that, although there was a mystery in those gloomy waters, and its revelation would not be too long in announcing itself. For the moment, though, let it be; there were other matters to deal with. He walked on.

  The curved crest of the sun glided slowly into view; it rose like some insolent and impervious curmudgeon, hostile to the night and all its stealthy malevolences. It was a grand and uplifting vision, and it almost brought a smile to his face; but he knew that the light and its warmth would not ward off the events about to unfold in this unholy place.

  Phelan reached the bench and lowered himself onto it, noticing as he did so that the bloodstains on the grass were still present. He could not help but look towards the whipping post and there was no surprise in his eyes, no catch of breath, when he saw the dark crimson liquid oozing from the relic, a steady stream that swilled in the dust at its base, gradually sinking into the earth itself.

  He closed his eyes against the sight, tilting his chin upwards as a sunseeker might. But the glow from the sun was behind him and as yet there was little heat from it.

  His lips moved as if in silent prayer.

  24

  DAVID ASH SLIPPED on his shirt and buttoned it, looking out of the window at the village green as he did so. It was not yet half past eight, but the heat of the sun was already drawing low clouds of moisture from the damp earth and the pond. He tucked the shirt-tails into his trousers, then rolled up the sleeves; it would be another hot day, perhaps even sultry. He spotted something yellow drifting through the thin vapour over the pond and remembered the tiny yellow duck he had noticed on the day he had arrived in Sleath.

  The bed behind him was rumpled, most of the top sheet dragging on the floor where he had kick
ed it off during the night. He went over to the sheet and tossed it back onto the bed; he sat on the edge of the mattress and ran his fingers through his still-wet hair, trying to tidy it into respectability. A little earlier he had used the bathroom at the end of the corridor, soaking his body in tepid water to revive himself. But he still felt tired, wrung out, and it was hardly surprising given the disturbed night he’d had.

  When Ash had reached the bathroom in Ellen Preddle’s cottage after hearing those terrible, heart-stopping screams, he had found the woman throwing herself about in some kind of wild paroxysm. It was as if she were struggling with some unseen demon. And indeed, he learned later that that was exactly what she thought she was fighting - the demon spirit of her late, hated and hate-filled husband. George Preddle still wanted the boy to suffer, she had told Ash later when the tears had dried and only the trembling remained, and she had to stop him, she had to fight his evil soul with all the strength she had. She had failed Simon when the boy was alive, but she would not fail him in his death.

  It would have been easy for Ash to dismiss her claims as the ramblings of an emotionally disturbed woman had he not seen her son’s ghost for himself. Without warning the bathroom light had flickered and dimmed, then left them in utter darkness. There was not even light from downstairs, for it seemed that all power in the cottage had suddenly drained. And in that darkness Ash had heard the single cry of a child in terrible torment.

  Almost at once the light returned and he had found Ellen Preddle lying on the floor, eyes closed as if she were unconscious. The bath was empty.

  Ash quickly examined the Polaroid shots lying scattered around the floor, but there were no images on any of them. Instead, each one showed a peculiar white effulgence, as if the camera’s flash had been reflected back into the lens. He gathered them up and slipped them into his pocket for later scrutiny, then righted the cassette recorder that had been knocked over. Its battery compartment was open with only one battery left inside; the others were lying around the bathroom. By now the woman was moaning softly and he lightly shook her shoulder. She woke with a start and began to struggle again, this time with him. He quickly calmed her and soon she slumped against him as if too exhausted to fight anymore.

  The strongest drink in the house was sherry and when Ash had settled her in the armchair downstairs he poured her a large one. To steady his own nerves he had helped himself to an even larger measure of vodka from the flask on the table.

  Ash had stayed with her until her eyes had begun to close, this time with natural tiredness. He had seen her up to her bed, assuring her that nothing else would happen that night (in his experience such phenomena could not sustain themselves for too long, because the drain on psychic energy was too great). Suddenly exhausted himself, he had returned to the inn to sleep, driving the short distance and using the key to the Black Boar’s main door that the landlord had given him. His equipment, he decided, would be safe enough back at the cottage.

  The haunting was over for one night, he had assumed, but then the other spirit child had returned.

  He had almost collapsed into bed with exhaustion, and his dreams had been as confused and as shocking as the night before. And, like the night before, he had awakened to find the same apparition standing by the bedside.

  There was both fear and pleading in the little boy’s wide eyes, and his image was perfectly clear, as though his form held some inner light. The apparition faded within seconds leaving behind - although only momentarily - a faint aura in the shape of the boy’s body, a kind of soft spectral outline. It was this that had leaned forward and touched Ash’s exposed hand. Ash had felt a cold tingling where this residual energy had touched him.

  As though released from a mesmeric spell, he had rolled over to the other side of the bed and onto his knees on the floor, a quick fluid movement born out of dread. He had crouched there for what seemed like a long time, but which in reality must have been no more than a minute or two.

  When he had calmed himself enough to move he had returned to the bed and surprisingly, had fallen asleep. Bright daylight and sounds of life elsewhere in the inn had roused him eventually, and the bath in tepid water had helped clear his head and settle his nerves.

  A sudden knock on the door broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Mr Ash?’

  It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’ he answered, rising from the bed.

  ‘Someone to see you, Mr Ash.’

  He was surprised. Who would want to see him at this hour of the morning? He immediately thought of Grace and quickly tidied the bed, working his way towards the door in the process. Before opening it he glanced around, then went back to the dressing table by the window. He slipped the hip flask into one of the drawers.

  When he finally opened the door his surprise increased, for it was not Grace waiting outside.

  The man standing next to the landlord’s wife was small and might well have been described as flamboyant. He carried a cane and wore a russet brown tweed jacket with a spotted handkerchief protruding from its pocket, over dark green corduroy trousers and brown brogues. His waistcoat was maroon and a paisley cravat of various colours adorned the open neck of his blue shirt. His silver-grey hair was sparse on top, but thick at the sides with longish side whiskers. His grey-green eyes inspected Ash so closely that the investigator began to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my bringing the gentleman straight up,’ Rosemary Ginty said, oblivious to the exchange between the two men, ‘but he said you were expecting him.’

  Ash regarded the diminutive man with astonishment, but something made him say, ‘That’s all right, Mrs Ginty.’ He waited for the stranger to introduce himself, but the man only smiled at him.

  ‘Well I’ll leave you to it, then.’ The landlord’s wife moved away, her head down as if she were preoccupied with other matters. She paused, half-turning back to Ash. ‘I hope you weren’t disturbed last night,’ she said.

  ‘Disturbed?’ He wondered if this was some kind of rebuke for his late return to the inn.

  ‘The noises,’ she went on, and for the first time he noticed the anxiety in her eyes. ‘Mr Ginty and I had, er, a problem with a mouse in our room. He made a lot of noise chasing it out, I’m afraid. Not that we usually have mice in the rooms, you understand.’ She gave a faint-hearted laugh and tucked a dangling lock of blonde hair behind one ear. ‘Bold little chap, but Tom soon saw it off. Well I’ll let you get on.’ She stopped again by the stairs and called back, ‘Can we expect you down for breakfast fairly soon, Mr Ash?’

  ‘I don’t think -’

  ‘Now I’m starving, meself,’ said the stranger, waving his hat towards the landlord’s wife. ‘Why don’t you set places for two?’

  She gave a nod of her head and disappeared down the stairs.

  Before Ash could object, the little man faced him. ‘I’m thinking you might be needing a decent’ - it sounded like ‘daicent’ - ‘meal inside you to set you up for the trouble ahead.’

  Ash frowned. ‘Am I supposed to know you?’ he said, beginning to get annoyed at the intrusion - and indeed, the familiarity. From the man’s accent Ash knew he was Irish, but he was certain he had never met him before.

  ‘No.’ The little man regarded him meaningfully. ‘No, you don’t know me, Mr Ash, but I feel somehow that I know you. D’you mind if I come in?’

  Without thinking, the investigator stood aside and the Irishman strode into the room, cane held almost as a pointer, going straight to the window opposite the door. ‘Have you had the chance to look at the faces out there this morning?’ he asked in his light, friendly tone. ‘Everyone I passed on my way here looked as if they’d had a bad night’s sleep. Did you look into the eyes of your landlady? There’s a darkness over the place, Mr Ash, which is extraordinary on such a fine day, don’t you think?’ He looked around, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Would you mind telling me who you are,’ said Ash, ‘and how you know me?’

&
nbsp; ‘You’re a modest chap,’ came back the reply. ‘You’re well known in the rarefied world of psychic phenomena. Sure, haven’t I read your very own book on the subject some years ago? And extremely interesting it was, if not entirely accurate.’ He went to the room’s single chair and sat, crossing his legs and cupping his knee with both hands, his hat resting on his lap. ‘I saw you driving by yesterday and recognized your face from the photograph on the back of the book.’

  Ash remembered the curious sensation he’d had driving past the village green when he’d returned to the inn yesterday afternoon, a feeling of being watched. No, it was more than that - it had been a similar perturbation to when he’d first met Grace, but perhaps less powerful. ‘That photograph was taken years ago,’ he said, aware that the recognition had not come from that source. He closed the door and walked over to the end of the bed. ‘And even then it wasn’t a good likeness.’

  ‘No, it was a very handsome photograph.’ The Irishman smiled disarmingly. ‘Well, it’s of no importance. The point is, I know who you are.’

  ‘But I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘Ah, forgive me. Manners have never been my greatest asset. My name is Seamus Phelan and I’m heartily glad to make your acquaintance.’

  The name sounded familiar, but hard as he tried, Ash could not place it.

  ‘It’ll come to you later, I’m sure,’ Phelan said, still smiling. He brushed back the thinning hair over his scalp. ‘For the present, let’s concentrate on the problem at hand.’ Some of the lilt left his tone and his eyes bored into Ash’s. ‘There are peculiar things happening in Sleath, d’you not think so, Mr Ash?’