The Ghosts of Sleath

by James Herbert

  ‘David, have a care now.’

  Both Ash and Grace jumped, for the silence before the words were spoken had been intense, and although the investigator recognized the voice immediately it took him several seconds to regain his composure.

  ‘Phelan?’ he said, peering into the opening.

  The great chamber beyond appeared to be lit entirely by candles, hundreds of them of all sizes and thicknesses. Shadows at the furthest edges of the room wavered in the unsteady glow, and he could just make out arched recesses and alcoves cut into the walls all around, their interiors as dark as sable. Faded tapestries and curious archaic instruments adorned the walls, while a long table, its surface made of stone, stood near the centre. Large, carved-wood chairs, a dozen or more, sat between the vaulted cavities and many of the stouter candles were mounted on tall, coiled posts of black metal. The smell of burning wax overwhelmed any other odours, although any warmth from those myriad flames was impalpable in the glacial chill of this inner sanctum.

  The Reverend Edmund Lockwood was slumped forward in a large carved chair, his chin almost resting on his chest, his gnarled arthritic hands clasped over the armrests, while Seamus Phelan stood behind the chair, his small, almost dainty, hands resting on its high back, cane discarded on the floor beside him.

  ‘How -’ Ash began to say, but was cut off by the Irishman’s urgent explanation.

  ‘When I left St Giles’ I went straight to the vicarage and persuaded Reverend Lockwood to come with me to this place.’

  ‘But why?’ Grace had already entered the candlelit room and was moving towards the two men. ‘My father’s unwell, he shouldn’t -’

  ‘Stay back!’ Phelan was holding up a hand as if to ward her off. ‘David, please take her away from here, now, this instant.’

  It was too late: Grace had already reached her father. She knelt before him and tried to look into his downcast face. The vicar stirred at the sound of her voice, swaying in front of her as though drugged. She spoke to him, but there was no response.

  Phelan’s voice became softer. ‘I’m afraid he’s in a bad way.’ He came from behind the chair and put his hands around the clergyman’s shoulders, gently pulling him back into an upright position.

  Slowly Reverend Lockwood looked up and when he saw his daughter he attempted to speak her name. Only a dry whisper came from him.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ Her eyes blazed at Phelan.

  The Irishman addressed Ash rather than the girl. ‘Please, David, do as I ask. Take Miss Lockwood away from here. You don’t understand.’

  But Ash was distracted. As he’d followed Grace into the huge room, he had noticed shapes inside the shadows of the vaulted recesses. He shone the light he was carrying into the nearest opening and the shock of revulsion that ran through him caused the torch to slip from his fingers. It hit the stone floor with a clatter, its beam instantly extinguished.

  Although the niche was in darkness once more, the image he had glimpsed remained in his mind’s eye. Despite its misshapen appearance, the thing was human - or at least, had once been human - he was sure of that. The desiccated skin of its head was brown and leathery, clinging closely to the shrunken framework, stretched tight across a diminished skull from which brittle threads of white hair hung; its black shrivelled eyes stared from sunken cavities, and a portion of its nose was missing or eaten away, discoloured bone pushing through, while its ears were no more than twisted lumps of gristle. A tattered rag, left colourless and begrimed by the passage of time, hung loosely from one frail shoulder, mercifully shrouding much of the skeletal body, its ragged hem reaching to ankles and feet that were mere grey-yellow joints of bone to which strips of dark carcass clung. Its stumped-tooth grimace seemed to be taunting Ash.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said slowly through the dryness of his own throat. ‘What was that?’

  There was a resigned weariness in Phelan’s voice. ‘They’re Lockwoods,’ he said. ‘The one you’ve just seen, and others around this room have been embalmed and preserved here by successive generations of Lockwoods. Like this old ruin itself, they’re mere shells with no life, no soul, having only black, degenerate histories. Ah, David, if only you hadn’t come to this place …’

  ‘Tell me why you brought my father here.’ Dread edged the fury of Grace’s demand.

  Phelan studied her face before replying. ‘Atonement,’ he said eventually, as her eyes continued to burn into his. ‘And I thought perhaps salvation, his, and others’. Now I fear it’s too late for either one.’

  They heard something move at the far end of the long room. Ash squinted, but Phelan did not even bother to turn his head. Grace rose from her kneeling position and she, too, narrowed her eyes against the unsteady shimmer of the candles.

  Something was emerging from one of the alcoves into the light.

  Ash caught his breath. Phelan had said these things had no life. They could only be husks, ancient cadavers preserved by fluids. They couldn’t possibly move …

  A glint, a reflection of light, preceded the black shape that was emerging from the darkness, and then the figure itself entered into the light.

  He wore mostly black and he was tall, big overall, his dark hair, grey at the sides, sleeked back from a high forehead. In his hands he carried a shotgun, one barrel above the other, the type of weapon preferred for precision game-shooting

  Somehow the man was familiar to Ash, although he couldn’t remember ever having met him, and there was something disconcerting about his eyes - in the flickering light they seemed almost pupil-less. Only when the dark man drew closer did Ash realize they were of the palest grey or blue, the pupils strangely contracted despite the chamber’s gloom.

  He had reached the stone table and was circling it, the shotgun trained on Ash.

  His nose was prominent, hooked, and only the absence of a definite jawline undermined the strength of those features, for his chin was tucked into the pouchy flesh of a broad neck. The paleness of his eyes was emphasized by the thick, black eyebrows; his hands were large and steady on the weapon.

  It was only when he stopped a few feet from Phelan that Ash realized where he had first set eyes on him: when he had arrived in Sleath three days ago, this man had been sitting with the village doctor in the bar of the Black Boar Inn, both of them watching him. And suddenly he also knew the identity of the dark-clothed gunman.

  ‘You’re Carl Beardsmore,’ he said.

  The tall man smiled. ‘How perceptive,’ he said.

  ‘Have you heard the term “psychopomp”, David?’

  Phelan had put the question mildly enough, almost as though the weapon aimed at them was of no consequence.

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  Beardsmore jerked the barrel of the shotgun, irritated by the Irishman’s manner. ‘There’s no time for that,’ he said.

  ‘Doesn’t the man deserve an explanation?’ Phelan responded. ‘What harm can it do? Besides, it greatly concerns the young lady here.’

  Grace, crouched by the inert clergyman again, glanced from face to face.

  Phelan maintained his composure, only he aware of the true danger they were all in. He had tried to warn Ash, but now it was too late, they were all at the mercy of Beardsmore. And there were other concerns also, such as the condition of the old ruin itself; he could feel the disturbances in the very atmosphere. In the village the portents were now so strong that even those without the ‘gift’ had become aware of the signs, for the hauntings were no longer confined to the intuitive. Something dreadful was happening to Sleath and a terrible price would be paid before the night was out.

  Keen to gain time, he ignored Beardsmore’s objection. ‘A psychopomp is a conductor of souls to the other world, a sort of guide or usher, if you like.’ He waved a hand towards the recesses in the walls. ‘Generations of Lockwoods, these monstrosities foolishly preserved for a time that will never come, believed they were such people.’

  ‘Oh, they were more than that.’ Beardsmore was
smiling again, although his pale eyes remained lacklustre. ‘They were visionaries, men who achieved the incredible.’

  ‘As you say,’ the little Irishman condescended. Beardsmore had moved around to the other side of the large chair, standing a few feet away from the main group, and Phelan noticed Ash take a surreptitious step forward while his attention was diverted. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he quickly continued, ‘at St Giles’ today we learned for ourselves some of the, uh, well now, how should I put it …? Diverse practices? It’ll serve for now. We learned of the diverse practices indulged in by the men who have governed Sleath over the centuries, although my friend here …’ he nodded towards Ash … ‘did not stay for the complete lesson. Miss Lockwood, I’m afraid your predecessors used the Black Arts to secure the souls of poor wretches that they, themselves, had murdered. It was their purpose to control those very souls through the transient stages of death, a skill refined if not perfected from one generation to the next.’

  ‘That was their genius.’ Beardsmore’s smile was more like a sneer.

  ‘That was their madness.’

  The barrel of the shotgun singled out Phelan, and Ash wondered if the Irishman’s comment wasn’t a deliberate ploy to upset Beardsmore. He took another small step towards the gunman.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to mock the genius of those who are unique,’ Beardsmore said.

  ‘Nor would you be the first to use such a cliché.’

  Ash thought Beardsmore might shoot Phelan there and then. The big hands gripped the weapon so tightly the knuckles showed white. Surprisingly, though, Beardsmore suddenly laughed. ‘Another step towards me and I’ll shoot your fucking head off.’

  He had not so much as glanced Ash’s way, but the investigator knew who he was talking to. He became perfectly still.

  Phelan hastily bridged the silence. ‘Y’see, Miss Lockwood, your forefathers believed if they could control and communicate with the spirits of those they killed then they, themselves, would learn of death’s mysteries. And by gaining that knowledge they hoped for their own immortality.’ He sighed and regarded the vicar, whose chin rested on his chest once more. ‘The worst part of all is that the quest for such wisdom involved experiments and rituals practised upon young innocents, many of them mere children, because it was they who possessed the strongest, the most vibrant, life-force. I suppose you might say that the energy of their spirits was more easily captured and manipulated when they died.’

  There was a barely repressed anger in Grace’s voice. ‘This is sick,’ she said. ‘Utterly and totally sick.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s also true.’ Phelan returned her stare.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘My father wouldn’t -’

  Laughter interrupted. Beardsmore appeared to be enjoying the discourse. ‘Your father is part of it,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you even understood that? It was left to him to carry on the tradition.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ Grace’s eyes blazed through the grime on her face. ‘He would never carry on such wickedness, even if it were true. He’s a priest, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Not for God’s sake - for his own. Who could be closer to the souls of mankind? There were many Lockwoods who were both priest and squire, masters and shepherds - why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  The suggestion was made with such confidence that Grace looked from him to her father, and then for some reason, to Phelan.

  The Irishman nodded. ‘I’m afraid it’s so, Miss Lockwood. The affliction your father has finally succumbed to is no more than the physical manifestation of the sickness in his own soul. An inherited badness, if you like, something he struggled against for most of his life. A battle, I fear, that eventually he lost.’ He leaned against the chair, the lines in his craggy face softened by the candleglow. ‘David told me of your father’s condition today, but when I went to your house Reverend Lockwood was reasonably coherent. We talked and I managed to convince him we should come to Lockwood Hall. He was full of repentance, y’see, he wanted to make amends in some way. Oh, it isn’t his guilt alone, there are others involved, villagers who, I imagine, are at this very moment in conflict with their own demons. But the fault is mainly his. He’s a Lockwood, do y’see?’

  Grace shook her father’s arms, as if to rouse him into awareness. ‘It isn’t true,’ she cried, ‘it can’t be!’

  ‘He brought you here when you were a child.’ Ash had moved again, but he made it appear that he was moving closer to Grace rather than Beardsmore.

  She spun round to him. ‘I know that, David. I told you that.’

  ‘No. I mean he brought you down here, to this place. That’s why you knew about it, don’t you see? You led me here, Grace.’

  ‘Not you as well, David. Please tell me you don’t believe in this nonsense.’

  ‘I saw it in your mind, Grace. I broke through that barrier to your subconscious, one you’d erected yourself. You’ve never wanted to know the truth, don’t you understand? It’s too painful for you to remember.’

  Her eyes were incredulous. ‘What are you saying?’ She was shaking her head.

  ‘He brought you here when you were a child and they used you.’ He hesitated. How the hell could he tell her? ‘The ceremonies …’

  Phelan helped him. ‘You were part of their perverted rituals. You, and other children. You were the more fortunate; they took the lives of others.’

  Grace continued to shake her head, and unconsciously her hands went to her face, covering her ears.

  Phelan went on: ‘Your mother discovered the truth just before she died. Your father confessed, although I’m sure she suspected something over the years. How could she not? That’s why you were sent away from Sleath when you were a child, to get you away from this place and all its evil. Your father told me it was his idea that you go, so maybe there was still some goodness in him.’

  Tears were trickling through the dirt on Grace’s face.

  ‘She suspected, but your mother never truly knew the extent of the activities that went on inside this secret room. But when your father eventually told her - out of guilt, remorse, perhaps he was seeking her help - then her heart became exhausted by it all.’

  Grace began to rise, and her face was towards her father so that Ash could not see her expression. Was she beginning to understand? Was contempt, disgust, now in her eyes?

  ‘You made yourself forget,’ he said gently, desperately wanting to go to her and offer comfort, but only too aware of the twin gun barrels aimed directly at him. ‘For the sake of your own sanity your mind blocked everything out - the rituals, the indecencies, the sickness here - because you believed you were part of them. And because you loved your father your mind wouldn’t let you admit his depravity.’

  She whirled on him and there was neither comprehension nor disgust in her eyes; there was only anger.

  Before she could speak, Phelan intervened, for there was a further truth this girl had the right to know; it might even lessen by some small degree the hatred she would surely feel for her father once she accepted - as eventually she must - these odious revelations. ‘At that time,’ he said, ‘there was someone who wanted you killed, but your father convinced him to take the life of another in your place.’

  Confusion stifled the anger. ‘They would have murdered me?’ Grace said slowly.

  ‘I would have killed you.’ Beardsmore sauntered closer to the group. ‘You were the weak link in the chain, I’m afraid. Even at that tender age I could tell you were not a true Lockwood. Not like your father, not like me. You weren’t the first weakling in our lineage, there were others in the past who could never be part of the Lockwood ideology, and they had to be dealt with too.’

  ‘She was a mere child,’ Phelan said as if keenly interested. ‘How -’

  ‘How could I know?’ Beardsmore was scornful, although he smiled. ‘One senses these things.’

  Ash was staring at the tall man, wondering at what he had said a moment or two before. ‘You?’
he said, comprehension dawning on him. ‘You’re a Lockwood?’

  ‘Look at him closely, David,’ said Phelan. ‘Can you not see the likeness? The eyes, the sweep of the forehead. Doesn’t he bear a passing resemblance to Edmund Lockwood himself? God only knows what accident of birth presented him to this world.’

  ‘No accident, my friend.’ Any trace of amusement had disappeared from Beardsmore’s manner. ‘Would you seriously be surprised to learn, knowing what you do about the Lockwood history, that the sexual activities of the males of the family - not to mention their particular proclivities - were not confined only to their own bedrooms? And have you not bothered to wonder why someone such as I, someone of wealth and a regard for things that might be considered anomalous by the rest of society, should be drawn to a dreary place like Sleath?’

  ‘I’d be interested to learn,’ Phelan replied drily.

  ‘I’m sure you would. But then I imagine all this pointless yatter is your way of buying time. What it will gain you, well, that I can’t imagine. Perhaps you think a sudden attack of remorse, something like the one that appears to be afflicting my distant cousin, the fallen priest, will cause me to throw down this gun and beg you all for forgiveness. Or perhaps my attention will wander, giving this fool …’ he indicated Ash ‘… a chance to attack me. What say I cripple him now?’ He aimed the shotgun at the investigator’s legs. ‘Hmn? It’ll give us a chance to talk without worrying about being interrupted by heroics.’

  ‘And have all that groaning distract us?’ Phelan kept the banter light, despite the horror on Ash’s face.

  ‘Ha! Good point. Dispense with him entirely then? No, I think not. Too much hysteria from Grace. Well then, let’s have you on your knees, Mr Ash. That’ll do for now.’

  ‘Do as he says, David.’ Tone still mild, Phelan looked warningly at the investigator.