The Ghosts of Sleath

by James Herbert

  The investigator was perplexed. Who the hell was this man and what did he know about what was going on in the village? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said brusquely, ‘but I’m here under the instructions of a client and my investigation is strictly confidential.’

  Phelan gave a mild wave of his hand. ‘Pompous nonsense and a typical Institute line, if I may say so.’

  ‘You’ve had dealings with the Institute?’

  ‘Not as such. I’m aware of its reputation, though. Now, David - you don’t mind the informality, do you? - now, the situation here is rather grave, which isn’t a suitable word to use under the circumstances, but it’ll do. The fact is, it’s liable to get far worse before it’s over.’

  Ash walked past the little Irishman and, hands in pockets, gazed out of the window. There were not many people about below - two women crossing the road, a man opening up a shop on the other side of the green, another pulling up in a dusty Metro alongside his own car in the nearby parking area - but Phelan was right: their faces were grim and they seemed to move slowly, as though burdened with some inner misery. On the other hand he might just be judging their mood by his own. Or maybe it was merely auto-suggestion, prompted by his uninvited guest. He did not bother to disguise his irritation when he spoke.

  ‘What are you up to, Mr Phelan?’

  ‘Just Phelan, don’t bother with the mister. And I can’t abide Seamus - bog-Irish, don’t you think?’

  Even the man’s constant smile was beginning to annoy Ash.

  As if guessing just that, Phelan’s expression became almost solemn. ‘Something unpleasant is happening here in Sleath, and I’m thinking it could be harmful to the villagers, perhaps even calamitous for them. And for you also, David.’

  Ash was silent for a moment. Then: ‘You’re aware of the hauntings?’

  The other man nodded and uncrossed his legs. ‘A tremendous - and sinister - psychic energy is building up in this place. Did you know the village was built over a point where several ley lines converge?’

  Again Ash was taken aback. Ley lines, so the theory went, were lines of earth energy along which high incidences of para-normal activity are purported to occur. Not being an advocate of the theory himself, his tone was somewhat sardonic. ‘I had no idea,’ he said.

  ‘An inaccurate term, ley lines, but I suppose it serves its purpose. Those earthly energies are being used in this very area, together with the latent psychic powers of certain individuals. Haven’t you realized this yourself, David?’ It was a question put in earnest.

  ‘Look, Mr Phelan -’

  ‘Just Phelan. Humour me, now.’

  ‘Okay - Phelan. I don’t understand your involvement in this. I don’t know who you are, or what you are.’

  ‘I’ve told you who I am and what I am isn’t important. But I was drawn here by the disturbances created by those energies, d’you see? I’m sure I’m not the only psychic in the country to be upset by these odd forces in the atmosphere.’

  ‘But you’re the only one to find their way here.’

  ‘Well - there’s you. You’re here, David.’

  ‘How do you know I’m psychic?’

  ‘Takes one to know one?’ His smile returned. ‘Strange that you should fight it so. Why are you so frightened of your gift?’

  Ash ignored the question. ‘I wasn’t drawn by any mysterious forces - I was invited by a client.’

  ‘Yes, by the vicar, no less. Oh, I did some investigating in the village meself yesterday - listening to the gossip, mooching around, that sort of thing. Didn’t I just spend the night watching over the place from the hill?’

  It was rhetoric, but Ash countered with his own question. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Oh, because of the danger I’ve already mentioned. Forgive me for sounding melodramatic, but there’s evil about and the revenants are thriving on it.’

  ‘Revenants?’

  ‘They’re -’

  ‘Yes, I know what they are - those who return from the dead after a long absence. Ghosts, in other words. What I don’t understand is why you should think so.’

  ‘Feel so, m’boy. I feel so. And perhaps if your own gift were not so repressed you’d feel it too. You’re being used, David. These malevolent forces are drawing on your own psychic energy. I thought so when I first saw you yesterday and I’m more than certain now that I’ve met you. You have an aura around you that’s depleted, and it has nothing to do with ill-health.’ The Irishman was quiet for a moment, but his eyes never left Ash’s. Then he said, ‘You’ve been used before, haven’t you? At some other time and in some other place.’ There was concern in his manner.

  Ash tried to push thoughts of Edbrook and Christina from his mind, but Phelan seemed to sense his struggle.

  ‘Let go of it, David. We’ll not talk of it just now. I understand that you’ve suffered traumas no man should have to endure. It’s our curse, isn’t it? Let’s concentrate on the problem at hand, shall we? God preserve us, it’s enough to be going on with.’

  Crossing his legs again, Phelan leaned back and threw an arm over the back of the chair; his hat swung to and fro in one hand. ‘And someone else here is being used, isn’t that right? Someone else with the extrasensory power. It stands to reason, because there had to be a haunting for you to be called in, and from what I gather, there have been several sightings recently.’

  Someone else with the power? Did he mean Grace? Ash was aware by now that Grace had psychic abilities more suppressed than his own, but was it possible? Could she be some kind of catalyst for these other forces?

  ‘Ah, I can see by your expression that I’ve given you food for thought. Would I be right in guessing you know this other person?’

  Ash did not respond immediately. He needed time to think, and he needed to know more about this man Seamus Phelan.

  The Irishman unexpectedly came to his feet, a swift, energetic movement that took Ash by surprise.

  ‘Why don’t we talk about this over breakfast?’ Phelan was already halfway to the door. ‘Shall I go on ahead while you get yourself ready?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  The humour left the little man’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for you to have doubts about anybody, my friend. It’s of no consequence at all, d’you see? Whatever you decide to do, whatever action you decide to take, it’s already too late. You could leave Sleath, of course, right now, right at this moment, but I don’t believe you’ll be wanting to do that, am I right? I can see that I am. Well, you have your reasons, but I can tell you that neither you nor I can control what is about to happen here in this place. The best we can hope for is that we’ll both have our sanity when the madness is over. Oh, and our lives, let’s not be forgetting that little thing. Two unfortunates have already lost theirs, I believe. The gamekeeper and the young man who was so viciously beaten.’

  ‘The boy wasn’t killed.’

  ‘Ah well, I think you’ll find I’m right. The young man is dead now, and there’ll be others to follow. See you downstairs for breakfast in five minutes.’

  With a jaunty wave of his hat, Phelan slipped through the door and was gone.

  ‘Kate? Thank God I caught you.’

  ‘Another few minutes and I’d have left for the Institute. You could have got me there.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but I need some information - fast.’

  ‘Oh my. Trouble brewing in Sleath?’

  A short pause. ‘I think so. Can’t be sure about anything at the moment.’

  ‘Come on, David, what’s going on there?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you.’

  ‘Have a stab at it.’

  ‘Not now. There’s something I want you to do for me, though.’

  ‘I’m here to help. If I can, that is.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of someone called Seamus Phelan? I think he’s a medium or clairvoyant of some kind.’

  She repeated the name thoughtfully. ‘Sounds familiar, but nothing immediately springs to mind
.’

  ‘Yeah, it was familiar to me too. Listen, can you dig around when you get to the office - you might have something on file.’

  ‘I’m pretty busy today, David.’

  ‘I think it might be important.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do my best. Do you want to give me a hint as to what this is all about?’

  ‘I wish to God I knew. Just bear with me for a while.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You don’t sound too good. Are you sure you can handle this case? I mean, whatever is going on in Sleath - are you well enough to cope?’

  ‘I’m over that last time, Kate.’

  ‘You had a serious breakdown. Something like that isn’t easy to get over. Why don’t I come up there myself, moral support and all that?’

  ‘No.’

  The rejection was unequivocal and Kate jerked back a little from the phone.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But if you need me …’

  ‘I’ll call.’ Some warmth was back in his voice.

  ‘When do you need the information?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘It’s that important?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. But it could be.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Cut the sarcasm, it suits you too well.’

  ‘Thanks, Kate.’ He meant for her help.

  Her voice softened too. ‘You’d let me know if you had a problem, wouldn’t you, David?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I told you to cut it out. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ash replaced the receiver. Hand still resting on it, he stared blankly at the phone for a few seconds. Then he picked up the receiver again and dialled another number. Grace Lockwood answered.

  25

  GRACE ENTERED the empty classroom and went to the table that had once served as the teacher’s desk. She laid the school keys on the table, then, thoughtfully, touched its surface, running her fingers over scratchmarks and indents. Decades of teaching had been ingrained in this wood; the walls around her had echoed with children’s excited babble, their singing, even their silence. There was still faded chalk writing on the blackboard, although most of it had been wiped, and she smiled when she read the remaining lines of a poem that she and her classmates had learned in this very room all those years ago. It gladdened her that such traditions had continued here - at least, until the place had been closed - for they were reassuring in a swift-changing world where Nintendo had taken the place of hopscotch and cheap cartoons were the new fables. She ran through the old poem in her mind:

  Three young rats with black felt hats,

  Three young ducks with white straw flats,

  Three young dogs with curling tails,

  Three young cats with …

  Now what was it? Such a long time ago, but she definitely remembered this one. They used to chant it together here. Timmy Norris would have known. He knew all the rhymes, as well as all the hymns. He knew them without looking at the blackboard or the book. He knew them by heart.

  Her face saddened. But Timmy never went on to learn other things, more grown-up things. Timmy wasn’t around to learn anything after his sixth birthday. Grace pulled back the chair from the table and sat facing the rows of tiny bench-desks as if she were the teacher now.

  ‘With demi-veils,’ she said aloud, recalling the last words of the poem. ‘Three young cats with demi-veils.’

  Her soft-spoken words seemed to hang in the air.

  It was hot in the classroom, for the sunshine poured through the high empty windows unhindered. The windows were always opened wide in spring and summer when she was a child, Grace Lockwood remembered, otherwise the heat would have been unbearable on the sunniest days.

  She checked her wristwatch. David should be here soon. He’d seemed anxious on the phone. It wasn’t his voice - he disguised his feelings too well for that - but she had sensed his anxiety. Odd, how easy it was to judge his moods. She hardly knew him, yet … Yet, she knew his thoughts. Not in an explicit way; she couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking, what he was about to say, but she was aware of him, she felt intuitively close. And it was the same for him, she sensed that too.

  Grace looked towards the middle row of bench-desks, two seats along. That was where she’d sat until she had been sent away. It had always seemed sunny in those days too. But that was only the illusion that came with childhood memories, when all summers were long and hot and it always snowed at Christmas. Life hadn’t really been like that. Not here in Sleath. There had been those other times.

  Grace shivered. And did not understand why. Something had bothered her, a thought, a memory; something on the periphery of her mind. She closed her eyes to assist that thought, but all she felt was confusion. Confusion … and a deep dread.

  A shadow moved across her closed eyes and she quickly opened them. There was no one with her in the classroom. And there were no clouds to drift by outside. Grace scanned the room uneasily. Beyond the glass the sun was painfully bright, yet somehow the classroom had dimmed. She pushed the chair back, about to rise.

  Before she reached her feet the voices came to her. But she did not hear them, for they were inside her head, faint, distant sounds that belonged to her perceptions rather than her physical sense. She sank back and her eyes closed once more.

  Other shadows moved across her eyelids, shapes that came between her and the sunlight; yet each time she opened her eyes there was nothing there.

  The voices came closer - they were inside her head, yet they came closer. She realized they belonged to children.

  Grace swayed on the chair; her head drooped, then jerked erect again. These children were singing and as she listened to the words - the words that were only in her own imagination - she recognized them. They were from a hymn that she used to sing. In this room. When she was a child herself.

  Her head bent forward and her shoulders sagged slightly; her lips began to move in time with the voices inside her head.

  ‘Dance then, wherever you may be,

  I am the Lord of the Dance, said he …’

  She spoke the words as the children sang.

  ‘And I’ll lead you all,

  wherever you may be …’

  Louder. She really could hear them now. The voices were no longer just inside her head: they came from the bench-desks, they came from the walls, they came from the air itself. She spoke along with them, her own voice rising with theirs.

  ‘They whipped and they stripped

  and they hung me high …’

  The sweet young voices were present, they were with her inside the schoolroom, and her eyelashes began to glitter silver in the shifting sunlight as a moistness seeped through her closed lids. She remembered the words as though she had only sung the hymn yesterday.

  ‘… and they left me there

  On a cross to die …’

  But the hymn took on a darker tone as the key changed down. Although she faltered, the voices continued; and they were no longer sweet, no longer young. There was a grim hollowness to them.

  ‘I danced on a Friday

  when the sky turned black …’

  The voices became deeper, less like those of children.

  ‘It’s hard to dance

  with the devil on your back …’

  Like adults singing.

  ‘… But I am the dance

  and I still go on.’

  ‘Grace?’

  She jumped in her seat, her hand reflexively clutching her chest. David Ash stood in the doorway, his face pale in the sunlight.

  She hadn’t wanted to stay inside the schoolhouse so they sat outside in his car, the side windows open wide to keep them cool in heat that was steadily becoming oppressive. Mist curled from grass verges and the road’s surface shimmered. They could see the church tower further up the hill peeking over treetops; the sky behind it seemed a
lmost bleached.

  ‘What happened in there?’ Ash asked, his body twisted towards her, an arm resting on the steering wheel.

  ‘I was thinking of a hymn we used to sing in school when I was a child.’

  ‘I heard you. You were speaking the words.’

  Her hands fidgeted with the small brown-leather shoulder bag on her lap. ‘Did you hear the other voices too?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And it was the same hymn I heard just before I met you at the church two days ago. The one I told you about.’

  ‘At first it was children’s voices singing, then they seemed to change. They became …’ She looked desperately at him. ‘They became unnatural, not like children’s voices at all. They frightened me.’

  His hand dropped over hers and she did not pull away. ‘Some parapsychologists believe sound can be absorbed into the walls of certain places, perhaps even into the atmosphere itself, stored there to be released at some later time, in the right conditions, by certain people.’

  ‘Then why has it never happened to me before?’

  ‘Until now you haven’t even acknowledged any extra sense you might have. But circumstances have changed. Tell me - what made you come here this morning?’