by Simon Clark
‘Nevertheless, please tell me.’
The old man ran the paper-dry tongue over his bloodless lips as he considered. A hospital porter pushed a trolley past the door. Outside the world went on as before. But already David sensed the world — the very fabric of the world that formed the chairs, beds, walls of the hospital, the soil outside, the rocks in the stream — he sensed all of this was holding its breath in a tense expectation of what would happen over the next few hours. The world was going to change soon. One Dr David Leppington held the key to that change.
He looked down at the old man as he lay there in bed, the eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling; the lips moved quickly yet silently, as if George Leppington was discussing David’s request with someone unseen but present in the room with them.
Then the lips stopped moving. The old man’s breathing was deep, rhythmic.
‘Well?’ David asked at last. ‘Will you tell me about the creatures?’
The old man gave a nod. Then he began to speak.
‘Be careful: they not only have the ability to reach out to you physically, they can reach out to you mentally; they can tamper with your mind.’ He gave a queer, slanting smile. ‘So beware, nephew.’ He continued talking in that whispery voice that was low, calm and strangely hypnotic. David leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.
4
Outside the wind rose, eliciting a long-drawn-out moan that ululated along the valley bottom to twitch at the power cables and shiver the trees so the roots strained against the earth that held them there. For all the world it looked as if the trees of Leppington longed to pull up their roots and flee the town. And all the danger and the dread that seethed through and below its darkened streets.
The cold wind blew harder. Power cables threaded between pylons swung back and forth, tree trunks bent with a dark, aching groan…
It was night. Eight hours of darkness remained until the sun would make its first hesitant appearance over the hills; it would come with all the trepidation of a woman returning home from work to find the front
door open, a window smashed, blood dripping down the stairway banister rail. Like the woman, it would peep fearfully over the horizon, afraid what it would find there in the town, in the cool light of another day.
CHAPTER 33
1
Bernice felt safe. She felt secure.
The doors to the outside world are locked, she told herself. The lift has been switched off between floors. The alarms downstairs are set. Anyone breaking in — be they mortal or vampire — will set the alarms shrilling.
Bernice opened the door of Electra’s apartment. The corridor on the first floor of the hotel was deserted. She felt very safe; very secure.
She stepped out into the hotel corridor. One bulb had blown in an overhead lamp. Otherwise, the lights were steady and bright.
The time was 9:15.
2
In the kitchen of Electra Charnwood’s apartment Jack Black smoked a cigarette. A tattooed finger curled thickly around the slender white tube as he held it to his lips.
A sound no one could hear — the sound of the people of Leppington’s thoughts — drummed rhythmically in his head. It was a low, muffled sound; like the beat of music coming through the walls of an adjoining house.
-put the cat out, Tommy; put it out while the adverts are on -
-no money in taxi driving, no money at all; there must be a job on
the buses; I’m not too old; might be worth writing to the bus company in Whitby; they might…
The voice faded to be replaced by another.
If I have sex with him tonight, he might take me into York tomorrow; those summer dresses won’t be on the racks forever, girl; besides, it’d be nice to feel the weight of his body on me, and the heat of his chest against mine…I like that. That’s nice…
Mum says I can watch another ten minutes of a wrestling video. I’ve still to see all of Wrestlemania, but I like the Undertaker’s Greatest Hits.
If he picks his toenails in front of the television again I’ll hit him; so help me I will…
The voices flowing into Black’s shaved head beat gently on. They were like the roar of the river tonight; a continuous sound, only slightly altering now and again in volume and pitch. The sound was strangely relaxing for once. Sometimes it drove him crazy.
Tonight the voices were pleasant, somehow soothing.
He pulled on the cigarette and looked through the first-floor window. He saw only the darkened courtyard and the shadowy shapes of willows on the river bank beyond. A few stars pricked through the gaps between scudding clouds.
He yawned, relaxed.
He knew where everyone was.
Doc Leppington had gone to the hospital. He’d be back soon.
Charnwood read books on local folkore in her sitting room; her face set hard with concentration, a pencil lightly inserted between her lips. Every so often she’d make a note in an exercise book. She was trying to find out as much as possible about the Leppington legends. Maybe there’d be some information they could use to their advantage.
Bernice had offered to do her bit, too. She’d gone up to her room on the fourth floor to fetch the videotape she’d spoken about. Before she’d gone through the door he’d told her in his characteristically gruff voice, ‘If you see anything, or hear anything, just yell. I’ll come running.’
She’d given a grateful smile, then stepped out through the door.
He pulled on the cigarette, calmly blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The rising wind blew around the hotel.
Black heard the sound it made. Gentle musical notes, like those of a flute.
3
Bernice walked to the end of the corridor and out onto the landing. Down below, she could see the hotel lobby with the deserted reception desk complete with visitors’ book and phones. The basement door was soundly locked. On the walls the infrared sensors silently scanned the air space for intruders. The lights on the lift control panel were dead. The lift was going nowhere tonight.
Bernice climbed upstairs, her sandalled feet making no noise on the carpet.
Outside, the breeze blew. As it passed across the ornate friezes, balustrading and Gothic stone carvings on the hotel’s quad towers it made a flute-like sound: a gentle, lilting melody like some melancholy Irish ballad.
She climbed flight after flight of stairs, passing the second floor; the third…
I can hear the walls breathing, she thought, relaxing to the flute sounds coming from outside; it’s a strange thought, but I can sense it, the bricks in the walls are breathing…
…in-out, in-out, in-out…
Oh, you’re tired, Bernice. Your sleep has been disrupted. Wouldn’t it be nice to choose one of the hotel rooms at random, then curl up on a bed as sleepy as a kitten and fall fast asleep until morning?
Those things outside the hotel seemed far away now. They couldn’t get past the locked doors; they could not hurt her.
The breeze played the building like a musical instrument; soft lilting flute notes soared up to the ceilings before spiralling down the well of the staircase.
I’m safe, I’m sleepy, I’m ready for bed. Surely there’s no real need to stay awake.
She remembered the times she’d pulled her chest of drawers across the room every evening to barricade the door, because of the silly notion that a ghost lurked outside on the landing.
The ghost of the suicide William Morrow —
— with no eyes and mossy graveyard lips and thick fingers to stroke the throats of vulnerable girls…
She smiled. Wasn’t that a crazy idea?
This place is as safe as a castle.
Nothing can get in.
Even that thing in the basement with the torn breasts is locked securely away. It can harm no one.
In fact, it could probably not hurt a fly anyway.
Even if she walked straight downstairs, unlocked the basement door, then marched right down to that lock-up store, threw open the door and…
Oh, but I’m not going to do that, am I? she thought, feeling deliciously sexy and warm. She stretched and smiled and twirled on the stairs like a dancer.
No. I wouldn’t do anything as wild and as carefree as that.
Would I, now?
4
The old man lay on the bed; he spoke in that dry whispery voice that was so hypnotic. David’s eyes felt heavy. Still he listened to the words trickling smoothly from the pair of ancient lips.
‘Always be on your guard, nephew. They are old and wily. In the past they have taken careless people. Remember, they are like fishermen; they can use their minds like baited hooks. They reach out, feel their way into your brain; then once you’re hooked they reel you in — slowly but surely. The victim feels warm, secure; secure to the point of feeling completely indestructible and filled with a sense of utter well-being and peace. People have been induced to leave their homes in the middle of the night and walk up to the cave entrances. There they’ve pressed themselves to the fences — they were completely mesmerized; and there they waited until the vampires came, reached through the iron bars, and took what they wanted from whoever it was — man, woman or child…’
5
Bernice had reached the fourth floor. Now, impulsively, she wanted to spin and turn along the corridor like a princess dancing at a ball, twirling around and around, long skirt flaring out.
Everything felt so right now.
I’m in love with David Leppington, she thought with a sudden blush of pleasure; I’m in love with him. He’s in love with me. She conjured his smile into her mind’s eye and recalled his voice, and she felt like dancing again.
And she felt so sexy, so…yes, so downright erotic.
She longed to have her bare arms stroked and her back lightly scratched.
She reached the door of her hotel room and opened it. Her skin felt prickly. It was these old clothes. Why didn’t she change into something nicer?
Why not the clothes in the cupboard? The forbidden clothes; the wicked clothes.
She giggled.
Yes, she loved the feel of Electra’s satins and cool silks against her skin. Why not, Bernice? Looking good and sexy isn’t a hanging offence, is it? She smiled. Not yet, anyway.
She whirled away out of her room and into the corridor again, towards the storeroom door where Electra’s cache of exotic and ineffably erotic clothes lay hidden.
6
By ten o’clock she was nearly ready. Once more she wore the long gloves in black lace that came up above her elbows. She’d slipped deliciously into the long, black satin skirt; then eased her feet into the patent-leather boots that came up to her knee. These laced up the front along the line of her shin bone — they were exquisitely tight, too, holding her calf muscles firmly as if gripped by a man’s large strong hands.
On her top she wore a loosely fitting blouse — very loosely fitting, bearing in mind it was cut for Electra’s ample torso. This was of black lace, too; an incredibly fine lace that was transparent. The effect was wonderfully pleasing when she appraised herself in the mirror.
The lace was so sheer it looked as if her top half was clad in black mist; when she turned it seemed as if her body radiated an aura of black, just a centimetre or so beyond her pale skin.
Again she applied heavy make-up around her eyes. Lashings and lashings of deep, dark shadow. Then a jet black kohl around her eyes to form such a thick eye-liner it made her think of the faces of Egyptian princesses.
Then she applied the finishing touch. Red lipstick. A luscious, moist blood-red that stood out vividly from her white face. Perfect.
She looked into the mirror and glowed with pleasure. Again the effect was a clash of opposites — the funereal black of Victorian-style clothing meeting the smouldering-mistress look of man’s most erotic fantasies. Her skin felt incredibly sensitive. She was aware of the different fabrics against her bare skin: the cool silkiness of the satin and silk; the slightly rougher texture of the black lace gloves that hugged her skin so close they could have grown there all by themselves.
Why am I doing this? she wondered. David isn’t here to appreciate all this effort. Never mind. He’ll see me later in all my dark, shimmering glory; perfectly adorned with shining come-to-bed eyes and voluptuous red lips.
Anyway, she’d show Electra. She could imagine Electra laughing in amazement and clapping her hands together. It would be a diversion — a bit of fun — on what would otherwise be a long, long night.
Humming lightly, she left her hotel room, sweeping along like the lady of the grand house. She paused, noticing something not quite right.
Well…something different.
What was it?
She looked back along the corridor.
Then she saw what it was and gave a light little laugh.
To her ears it sounded light-hearted and tinkling.
To other ears it might have sounded like the laugh of an inebriate or someone skirting dangerously close to the edge of madness.
She turned, looked and curtsied.
‘Why, thank you,’ she said to thin air. ‘Thank you for sending the lift for me.’
The lift doors were open. Inside it was brightly lit.
Light as a butterfly, skirts swishing, she stepped inside.
She raised a satin-clad finger to press the plastic button bearing a number 1 — a worn and shiny number 1, at that.
But already the lift doors were closing before she had time to even touch it.
‘Why, thank you,’ she said happily as the doors slid shut with a dry scraping sound.
The lift motor hummed, the walls and floor trembled. The lift had begun its descent, carrying her downwards.
7
Electra Charnwood walked drowsily into the apartment kitchen, yawning, her hand over her mouth.
‘I’m sorry…Uh, I’m so tired. I fell asleep on the books. Have you — Jack…Jack.’
She looked at where he sat at the kitchen table. He appeared to be awake. His eyes were open, although the stare was glassy and fixed.
His hand rested on the table. Between his fingers a cigarette had burned right down to the fleshy web part between the first two fingers, leaving a little pillar of cold ash.
‘Jack!’ Her voice cracked like a whip. ‘Jack! Wake up!’
The eyes rolled blurrily, then snapped into focus.
‘Uh…what is it?’
‘Jack. Where’s Bernice?’
‘She went up to her room.’ He looked at the burnt-away cigarette between his fingers with a muted kind of surprise, as if he’d seen a mushroom sprout from the back of his hand. ‘Why?’
‘When, for heaven’s sake?’
Almost groggily he looked up at the kitchen clock on the wall. ‘Aw, fuck.’
‘When, Jack?’
‘Over an hour ago.’
Electra hissed, ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ A cold sensation licked through her stomach and chest in long, ice-cold strokes. ‘Damn…just pray they haven’t got her. Come on…best bring your hammer. We’ve got to try and find her.’
They burst through the apartment door onto the first-floor landing. The first sound they heard was an electric hum.
‘That’s the lift,’ Electra cried. ‘Damn. I switched it off, it can’t be working.’
Black said in a flat voice, ‘It is now. Can you stop it?’
‘We’re going to have to.’ Fumbling for the key that would switch off the power to the lift, Electra ran for the first-floor lift doors.
She pushed the key into the keyhole beside the lift call button and looked up. The lift was coming; already the illuminated numeral set in the panel above the lift’s doors was changing from four to three.
‘Wait,’ Black grunted. ‘How do we know Mochardi’s in the lift?’
‘She must be. Who else can it be?’
‘Might be one of them bastards. It might come straight out at us if you stop it on this floor. What could we do then?’
The lift counter show
ed floor two — just one floor above them. Electra could see in her mind’s eye the dark coffin shape of the lift sliding down through the brick-lined shaft, the draught caused by its passing gently fluttering a hundred years’ worth of cobwebs.
‘What are you going to do?’ Black prompted.
Electra stood poised with her hand ready to turn the key, her eyes anxiously looking up at the floor counter. If it was Bernice in there they had to stop the lift and get her out. The lift was, intuition told her, bound for the basement. And whatever might lurk down there.
But if the lift contained those monsters they’d fall upon the two of them the moment the doors opened.
Her mouth went dry. ‘I’ll isolate the lift between floors. That way the doors will stay shut until we decide to open them.’
‘Better be quick —’
As the figure two winked out, leaving the counter blank, Electra knew the lift was now between floors. She twisted the key sharply.
She looked up, expecting the little screen to stay blank and to hear the muffled bump of the lift coming to rest.
Her mouth opened, her heart seemed to stop mid-beat. ‘No.’
The figure one appeared.
‘It’s not working. They must have tampered with the electrics.’ She twisted the key backwards and forwards. Nothing happened.
Whatever cargo the lift carried within its pine-covered walls was, after all, going directly down to the basement.
Now, Electra knew for sure, Bernice was in the lift. She laid her palm flat against the lift door, felt the vibration tickle through the wood as the lift slipped by bearing its fragile mortal contents like a sacrificial offering en route to a dark and terrible god.
The panel showed a G. Ground floor.
Then a B.
Basement.
It had reached its destination.
8