Supernatural Tales 15

by Walter, Adam

  * * *

  We stayed up most of the night. In the end I convinced Abby the photos were an oversight, brought out before we left for the evening and forgotten to put back. I almost believed it myself. We shared a bottle of wine and reminisced about the old days. Eventually, I stumbled up the stairs and fell into bed.

  Next morning I was awake early. Abby was in the kitchen frying bacon. She pointed to a place set at the table and broke an egg into the pan. If there was a slight hesitation on my part before sitting and if one of the draws stood slightly open, neither drew the others attention to it. Abby sat opposite and watched me eat.

  I waved my knife. “Not joining me?”

  She teased a piece of bread from a loaf and popped it into her mouth.

  “This is all I want.”

  I raised my eyes. “You’ll waste away.”

  She smiled. “I hardly think so.”

  It struck me how much her moods swung between night and day. Much like the décor of the cottage and her relationship with David, there was darkness and light within one unit. I paused. Abby still hadn’t answered me about leaving.

  “I can’t Ben, I really can’t,” she said. “I know I’m very much alone here, but there are things I have to face before I can even think of moving on.”

  She watched me as I played with my food and sensing my disappointment quickly changed the subject. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

  “I’m going to my sister’s.”

  “That’s nice.”

  It wasn’t, and I wasn’t going. “And you?”

  “I’m stopping with David’s parents.”

  I stopped eating and looked across the table. I never thought they were close. Even David’s relationship with them was strained.

  “I thought it would be nice.” She was staring at the opposite wall.

  “Yes,” I said, “I see.” I picked up my fork and recommenced eating.

  And as I glanced at her worn, tired face, I wondered if David would ever let her go.

  * * *

  It was April before I saw Abby again. Though we spoke on the phone almost every weekend I fell into a routine at work and couldn’t get away. Christmas passed and as January gave way to February and March, I noticed a change. She appeared happier, less morose or inclined to dwell on the past. There were dark times of course, times of doubt and contemplation, but at the end of our conversations I was inclined to believe the worst was over and happier times lay ahead.

  The air was crisp and the cottage bathed in warm spring sunshine as I pulled into the drive. The earth had been transformed. Bluebells covered the sward beneath the trees, while a flush of new growth covered the branches. Even the wild uncultivated land at the bottom of the garden was speckled with colour. Abby was standing by the door, a dark knit cardigan thrown over a green dress.

  “Ben.” She threw her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you.”

  I felt her softness, so different from the wasted woman of winter. I leaned back and held her at arms length.

  “You look terrific.”

  She made a mock curtsy. “Why thank you sir.” We laughed and for a moment our eyes locked and in that moment, I knew she was going to be all right.

  “Come on Ben,” she said taking my hand, “the kettle’s boiling.”

  Even the interior of the cottage was different. The repetitive monotones that had so depressed became vibrant shades of ivory and silver, ebony and sable.

  We sat in the kitchen. There was fresh fruit on the table and a smell of baking bread came from the oven. I looked out of the open door towards the back garden.

  “I can’t believe how different it all looks.”

  Abby had donned a pair of gloves and crouching by the open oven, was critically appraising her bread. “I told you it was a beautiful place Ben.”

  She pushed it back and closed the oven door. “You just happened to see it at its worst.”

  I sipped tea. “And you Abb, are you over the worst?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes I am.”

  I stroked my chin. “And David?”

  She sat opposite and placed her hand on mine. “Is gone.” She shook her head. “I just needed time. You do understand?”

  I nodded. “I think so.” I looked into her eyes. “No more bad dreams?”

  She shook her head. “No more bad dreams.” She squeezed my fingers and my whole body came alive. I reached over, brushed the hair away from her cheek and ever so gently, I kissed her mouth. It was over in seconds and yet something other than friendship passed between us. For a moment more Abby held my palm against her cheek. Then she kissed it and stood up.

  “Come on,” she said, “it’s too nice to be inside.”

  * * *

  The pageant field had yet to be sowed. But in the earth, in the soil beneath my feet I sensed anticipation. The land was waiting. Only the scarecrow looked out of place. The sad bag of rags looked ready to fall apart. But I hardly noticed for there was a new vibrancy about the land. I sensed it in the fields and hedgerows, in the trees and creatures emerging from hibernation and that night, I found it in ‘The Judas Man.’

  It was a mild evening and the door and windows were open. Once again heads turned as we entered the bar. But rather than the cold suspicions of winter, smiles and warmth greeted us. The entire village was there. As I slipped between burly farmers and their plain faced wives, glasses were raised and I headed to the bar pursued by handshakes and offers of drink. Even John had a smile for me.

  “Nice to see you again sir.” He pushed a glass of best across the bar and winked. I thanked him, noting his clean-shaven appearance. Behind him a woman was polishing glasses. Middle aged and well proportioned, she smiled when she saw me looking.

  Abby found a seat at a corner table and I squeezed in next to her. I handed her a drink. “Who’s the woman?”

  “Wife. She’s back.”

  I pursed my lips. “He’s remarkably jolly.”

  I took a sip of beer and looked around. Every conceivable space was occupied. There was laughter and noise, the smell of warm bodies and drink bathed the surroundings in a sweet and sour aroma and I leant closer to Abby’s ear.

  “Actually they all are.”

  “Well tomorrow is a big day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come on Ben.” She dug me in the ribs with her elbow. “It’s May Day. First thing in the morning there’s a parade to the pageant field. Then there’s a Maypole, stalls and Morris dancing.”

  “Any of this involve drink?”

  “Obligatory.”

  “Count me in.”

  “Thought as much.” She twisted in her seat, making herself comfortable.

  “I’m going to enjoy myself this year. Christ but I’ve had enough of feeling miserable. I feel good Ben. For the first time since I’ve lived here, I really feel a part of it.”

  I smiled and lifted my glass to her. Her mood matched those around us and their joy was infectious. The primeval urges of spring were unabashed and rampant and I just couldn’t help myself. I took hold of Abby’s hand and as her fingers laced around mine, I kissed her. Her lips were soft and as we lost ourselves in the act, a rough cheer came from those sitting opposite. I turned to find them and a dozen more besides, laughing and raising their glasses to us.

  Abby reddened. As if on cue, somebody near the bar began to sing ‘The Cuckoo’s Nest’. We laughed, joined in the bawdy chorus and along with everyone else, drank to the future.

  We made love that night. There were no secrets between us and we immersed ourselves so fully in each others’ bodies that only exhaustion sapped our desire. Heart, mind and soul belonged to the other. And when our coupling was over and the musk-laden air settled over our sated bodies, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  Only once did I wake. Abby’s tender breathing was the only thing I heard. David had gone, exorcised from our hearts forever. I pulled the covers over Abby’s naked body and fell asleep with the sweetest of d
reams.

  * * *

  Birdsong woke me. Though the imprint of Abby’s form remained, the space beside me was cold. Aldbury’s church bells were to ringing and I remembered that it was the first of May.

  I dressed quickly and ran from the house. Abby was beside the stile. She had a hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun and was gazing into the distance.

  “I thought I was going to miss it. “

  She turned and smiled. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t like disturbing you.

  “Where are they?”

  She pointed and there, just winding their way onto the pageant field, was a crocodile of a procession. The whole village was turned out. Some came in costumes of blue and gold, some in their Sunday best while others just came. And at their head, two magnificent flags – golden sheaves of wheat on fields of pale blue, waved. Playing a slow steady rhythm, the village band followed. Drums beat and bugles chorused. The mournful beat, pulsed beneath my skin.

  I pulled a face. “I thought it would be a bit livelier.”

  Abby grinned. “Don’t worry Ben, it gets more exciting later.” She kissed my cheek. “I’m going to get ready.”

  “Ready?”

  “Church.” She raised her eyes. “And then the fun begins.” I started to follow but she laid a hand on my wrist. “Stay,” she said. “I’ve seen it before.”

  I watched her go, watched as she picked her way through the tall grass and wild flowers then returned to the spectacle. To get a better view, I climbed over the stile and sat on its step. Even then I didn’t see. But an irritating tingle at the base of my neck caused me to look.

  The scarecrow had gone. I stood up and walked to where it had been. Rather than removed, I saw that it had been knocked to the ground. As a consequence the contents had spilled from the overalls. I took a step closer. Disarticulated bones, white and licked clean by rapid decomposition lay across the brown earth. Gleaming in the sunlight, a skull sat on top of the discarded Hessian sacking. .

  And the drums drew near.

  There was more. A new pole stood where the old one had been. There were clothes too: a dark pair of overalls, a hat, and a coat sat on the hedgerow – ready.

  The drums banged and the bugles brayed. My stomach churned. I backed away and remembered the parade. They were so much closer. It seemed the whole village was bearing down on me and in my moment of understanding, in the moment I realised the full import of my discovery, a group of men broke from the line and ran towards me. John led them. In his hand was a rough piece of Hessian sacking.

  My legs buckled. I forced them to move and reached for the stile. But as I set one foot upon it and began to clamber over, other men emerged from the wood. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and my mind tumbled out of control.

  They came quickly. I held up my hands in a foolish effort to placate, but there was no mercy. A rough calloused hand grabbed my collar. I choked as the grip tightened and I looked up to see John’s blazing eyes. Feral instinct took over and I clawed at him, sank my nails into his flesh before aiming a kick at his groin. But it was too wild and someone caught my swinging leg. They forced it higher. My hamstring tightened and I yelled in agony as the sinews tore. Overturned, my head bounced on the ground as I fell. They turned me quickly. A knee in my back, arms pinned at my side; dark earth filled my mouth. I twisted, arched my back ready for one last effort, but they held me tight. I spat and took a huge breath. But my mad scream was strangled as the garrotte slipped around my throat.

  And the drums rang in my ears. Constriction – no air, a sharp pain as the noose tightened. Nausea came with it. Bile burned my gullet and the noise of my own choking was an echo from elsewhere. Speckled black pits dotted my vision as black waves of despair swamped me. As I sank below the surface of consciousness, my mind groped for one last breath, one last taste of life. But there was no escape. I was going down to a dark place of withered dreams and decaying hopes.

  And then came other images: Abby walking through early morning mist, Abby taking the hand of a child before they ran through fields of tall ripening wheat. The sun shone and the wheat turned to gold before them. I could almost touch it.

  And at the last when bladder and bowels had voided and death lay but one heartbeat away, I was left with the final thought that perhaps this was always meant to be, that my fate had been decreed even before birth – that this was indeed my place and those who sang the songs and rang the bells had, for the next twelve months at least, found their Judas Man.

  Pockets of Emptiness

  by Louis Marvick

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed the end of Aiken’s story the fire suddenly collapsed, and the glow of its ruin flared briefly in the eyes of my companions. Stannis got up and pushed what was left of it together with the poker, but a vital part of its heat was gone and the decanter made another round in compensation. I was just thinking of bed, for the silence had re-established itself and no one seemed inclined to break it, when an older man whose name I hadn’t caught began to speak.

  “Those are good, straightforward shudders you’ve given us, Aiken. A nasty affair altogether. Handled the gore with discretion, too—not too much.

  Well done. But have you fellows ever heard...”

  Whatever memory occurred to him made him shrink together like a snail touched with a stick. No one spoke, for there was something in this beginning that arrested our attention and set our nerves on edge. We waited, and our stillness was such that the signs of his inward struggle – the minute quivering of his eyebrows, the compression of his colourless lips – were more disturbing than a bigger demonstration half-regarded would have been. After a moment the spasm passed. He looked round at us with an apologetic air.

  “I was going to ask if you’d ever heard of a ghost that didn’t intrude suddenly.” None of us had. “That’s usually a key feature, isn’t it; the suddenness of the intrusion? In all the famous cases, the horror comes together at a definite moment in time. It’s never just a gnawing uneasiness that persists, but refuses to take shape.”

  He seemed prepared to leave it at that – not for want of a story to tell but because he didn’t trust himself to tell it. For a long time he sat staring into the embers, his thin fingers clasped together and pressed against his mouth. There was nothing contrived about his reluctance. On the contrary, he was oblivious to the effect he was creating, which was of something too nebulous, and at the same time too unpleasant to be put into words.

  I felt a chill on my skin as the silence deepened. The reflected glow pulsed like dying snakes in his eyes. When he spoke again his voice was like the echo of our first steps into a dim and hollow region.

  It was half a lifetime ago (he began), shortly after the war. A private loss had left me feeling very low. I was useless to my students and avoided my friends. There seemed no point in anything. Once you start looking down into that pit you begin to feel its pull. You realize there’s nothing to keep you from stepping off the edge. No safety-rail. The thought of doing away with yourself becomes less terrifying than the thought that you can do so; or rather, the two thoughts combine in one black collapse.

  You begin to believe there is nothing else to do, and the belief feeds on itself until you encounter it everywhere you turn. It drives you to it, barring some intervention from outside, some grace or absurdity (perhaps they’re the same thing) that doesn’t fit into its logic.

  In my case, the grace came as the answer to an application I had sent off months before and forgotten about. It belonged to a world of hope and promise that I no longer inhabited. The door was still ajar, however; and with a sense that I was being given my last chance I accepted the offer of a short-term fellowship at the University of Leeuwarden, in Friesland. A paper I had published on the Duke of Alva’s table-talk had earned the favourable notice of Kobold de Balg, a big gun on the faculty there and an authority on the Thirty Years’ War. I had met him only once, but I knew his work, and his letter did much to put me back on
my feet: it was cordial, and reminded me of the fascination which that turbulent period had once held for me. There would be no difficulty about my lecturing in English, he said.

  I settled my affairs, put the few good sticks of furniture I possessed in storage (I had no people left except a spinster aunt at Crewe), and booked passage on the boat-train to Rotterdam.

  My original plan was to proceed by train over Amersfoort and Sneek, and to reach Leeuwarden without delay. But when I had got as far as Zwolle I had a change of heart. The watery Dutch landscape outside the carriage window seemed to reflect the glimmering convalescence of my spirit. It appealed to me strangely; and since my presence at the university was not required for another week, there was no reason why I should not take my

  I bought a used bicycle at the station, a comfortable, upright opafiets (or “grandpa’s bike”) and set off across the polder with more light in my soul than had been there for many months.

  Once fairly launched I let my mind go blank. Sharp spears of delight were a thing of the past to me, and I knew it would be a mistake to expect too much in the way of enjoyment from the scenes I was moving through. Such expectations would only return me to the wreck of my earlier hopes. Like a man recovering from a terrible accident I shrank from the pressure of any contact that might open my barely-knitted wounds.

  But the Frisian landscape accorded perfectly with my mood. It is flat, you know, with only an occasional church spire or stand of elms to relieve the vastness and nothing to make one’s heart quit its even rhythm. A faint haze lies over it, even when the air is mild. One has the sense that a fine spray is suspended in the lower atmosphere, while the earth, where it meets the horizon, has the lightness and friability of moss.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place so sparsely peopled. For long spells I saw no one at all, though I was tooling along at a decent rate. After five minutes’ pedalling I must have passed beyond everything within my first field of view; yet the new scene was indistinguishable from the last: the same bluish fields and mild, hazy air, the same path of smooth, packed sand, and beside it a branch of the same canal, glassy and dark green, like a continuous jewel in its foil of turf.