A Weaving of Ancient Evil

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  She thought about Sean Collins again. He had quite a nice smile.

  Sean walked back to his room and lay down on the bed. He was nowhere near as confident as he liked to make out, and he found meeting new people to be a major strain. In reality he was painfully shy. That was why he had gate crashed Susan’s room. He recognised in her a kindred spirit – only whereas she hid behind unfashionable clothes and a timid manner, he over-compensated for his shyness by becoming brash and obnoxious.

  His overwhelming ambition was to become a successful author. The solitude of a writer’s life appealed to him immensely. The thought of sitting in a room with just a computer screen for company was so attractive that he had thought of doing nothing else with his life. He had left school and was due to start at Art College in the September. It was his illustrating skills that had won him the place there, but in truth it had been another easy option, another secure, institutionalised existence, that put off the inevitable step into the hostile and deeply frightening “outside world”.

  The Darkworld website had come about by accident. He had been given a software disk by an uncle who found it on the cover of a second-hand magazine. The disk had all the software necessary to build his own website and publish it on the Internet. After a few abortive efforts he came up with a site he was happy with, and almost instantly he started to have “hits”, visitors coming on to his site – checking out the “new kid on the block”. And just as instantly he discovered the power the website and the Internet in general afforded him.

  He discovered the beauty of anonymity. On the Internet he could be whomever he chose to be. He could create a persona and hawk that persona around various chat rooms, talking to people on-line in various guises – never as himself. He could be outrageous, cantankerous, rude, pleasant, witty, argumentative… the list went on and on. He could be all things to all men, and women.

  It bothered him slightly that Susan Cross was a regular visitor to the website. He had developed a persona especially for the site – a super-cool dude, so laid back to be almost horizontal; quite unshockable, open to anything. He was slightly worried now that Susan Cross would expect him to live up to the part he had created for himself.

  In her room Cat opened her suitcase and took from it a framed photograph. The photo showed a young man, blond haired, good-looking, his face tanned from days spent in the sun. She looked at the photograph for a long moment then, wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye, she set the photo down on the bedside table. Then laid down on the bed herself, propping up her head on her hands.

  She was still in shock. It had been three months now since Dave had dumped her. Dumped. What a descriptive word. That’s exactly how she felt – dumped, chucked, packed up. It all meant the same thing. She was a long way from getting over it, but she was certain no one would ever do it to her again. No one would ever get that close to her again.

  She welcomed the seminar. She enjoyed writing, but had no driving ambition to be a full-time author. She saw herself more as an artist. She wrote, she painted and played reasonable guitar and flute. But the seminar would prove a welcome distraction, and perhaps she would be able to think about something other than Dave and his irresistible smile.

  The room allocated to Tim was much larger than Steve’s, and had the benefit of a desk as well as bed and wardrobes. Situated at the front of the house, the room looked out over the gravel drive to the woodland beyond.

  Tim took his laptop from his bag, set it down on the desk and switched it on. The computer was a present from his grandmother – a reward for him passing the three A levels he had taken at school. There was a place waiting for him at Keele University, but he was taking a year out first.

  His grandmother was also his legal guardian. His parents had emigrated to Canada when he was seven, and had left him behind to be brought up by his father’s mother. He hadn’t fitted in with his parents’ plans. Not that Tim felt resentful; life with his grandmother was emotionally fulfilling and intellectually stimulating. She was a very intelligent woman and had introduced him to books at an early age – and not just any books. She had read him Dickens at bedtime, and before he was ten he had devoured the works of Edgar Allen Poe. His taste for the classics lasted until their teens when he developed a liking for Stephen King and the horror writer, James Herbert, whose story, The Fog had given him many sleepless nights.

  His grandmother wasn’t a snob when it came to literature and encouraged his enthusiasm for the darker side of fiction. She bought them book after book, often sending away for catalogues from specialist dealers.

  ‘I have no problem with you reading Herbert and King,’ she said one night at bedtime. ‘But it’s important also to read the writers who influenced them.’

  And so the works of M.R. James, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, William Hope Hodgson and many more supplemented his education in macabre fiction.

  He was missing his grandmother already. He just hoped he would get to see her again.

  He opened a file on the computer. His diary. He made an entry.

  5.30pm. Arrived late for the seminar. Met the others. One of them is Steve Vincent. I’ve read his work. V.good!!! Surprised his stories haven’t made more of an impact. Three girls, three boys (myself included.) Fancy the girl called Lisa, though she seems to be with Steve. Ho-hum, such is life!

  5

  By the time Steve got down to the drawing room the others were already there, sitting at the front of the room on a semi-circle of chairs. The room was large with oak-panelled walls and huge French doors that gave onto the garden

  DeMarney leaned nonchalantly against the wall and glanced at his watch as Steve entered. Steve coughed nervously and mumbled an apology. He wasn’t that late – a few minutes at most. He sat down on the remaining empty seat.

  DeMarney clapped his hands together. ‘Right. Now we’re all here, let’s get on.’ He took a step forward and stood before them. ‘I would like to welcome you formally to Senice House and to the Senice Foundation’s writing seminar. Before I introduce you to your tutors, I would like to say a few words about Isabella Senice, the woman who lends her name not only to the Foundation, but also to the house. Isabella was a fine woman. I only had the pleasure of meeting her once, but in that brief time I can say that her devotion to the arts, especially that of the written word, was paramount. She travelled widely throughout the world and used her great wealth to help support art projects across the globe.

  ‘In this country her special project was the Senice Foundation, an organization devoted to promoting excellence in writing skills. It was a long held ambition of hers to become a published writer, but unfortunately she knew she lacked the talent to achieve that goal. So she decided to let her wealth benefit those with more talent than she herself possessed. In the introduction pack we sent you when we accepted your application, you will find a more detailed account of Isabella Senice’s life. I hope, if you haven’t already, you will find time to read it, and to perhaps reflect on what a fine woman Isabella Senice was.’

  Steve stifled a yawn. The reason he was late for the reception was because he had fallen asleep on the bed. He hadn’t intended to sleep, and hadn’t even felt particularly tired, but the bed was surprisingly comfortable. He had drifted, listening to the birdsong coming into the room through the open window. Now the sound of DeMarney’s voice droning on was sending him back to sleep.

  His eyes were fluttering shut and he almost jumped out of his seat as DeMarney’s hands clapped together once more. ‘Right, that’s enough from me. I will now introduce you to your tutors for the week.’

  On cue the drawing room door opened and three people entered and came down to join DeMarney at the front – two men and a woman, all in their mid-to-late twenties. They stood in line as DeMarney introduced them.

  There was awkwardness within the group of students as DeMarney announced each name. They weren’t sure if they were expected to applaud or not. By the time DeMarney had finished, the group had been introduced
to Allen Mason, Nick Stewart and Nancy Gilmour.

  The woman was fair skinned but with cropped dark hair and large dark eyes. Allen Mason was thin and pale and peered at them myopically through thick wire-framed glasses. Nick Stewart was taller than the other two, had a hooked nose and a pronounced Adams apple. None of them were particularly good looking, Steve thought. And all of them looked as if they could use a good meal.

  Nick seemed to be the most senior of the three. At least, he was the one who did most of the talking as he outlined what the group could expect during their stay.

  ‘One question to you all,’ he began, looking at each expectant face in turn. ‘Why are you here today?’

  There followed an embarrassed silence with none of the six wanting to be the first to answer. Sean Collins rolled his eyes and stared out through the French doors. He hated dumb questions like that. The answer was usually so blindingly obvious that only an idiot would think of it.

  ‘Because we want to be writers.’ Susan Cross provided the answer, surprising herself into the bargain.

  ‘Exactly. Because you want to be writers.’ Nick Stewart paused, again searching the faces of the six. ‘Well, I’m going to let you in on a secret. A secret so mind-blowing that you are never ever going to feel the same about yourselves again.’ He paused again, turning to grin at Nancy and Allen. ‘The secret is this,’ he said rounding on the six. ‘You are writers. All of you. You are the authors of the greatest story of all time.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Sean muttered. ‘He’s lost me.’

  Tim shushed him. ‘Just listen. You might learn something.’

  Nick continued, ignoring the interruption. ‘Has anybody worked out what story I am talking about, and how each of you, individually, can be responsible for it?’

  Again a pregnant silence filled the room.

  ‘Our lives.’ Steve said. ‘He’s talking about our lives.’

  ‘Indeed I am, Steve. Each and every one of you has a wealth of experience, of emotions... indeed enough human dramas to fill a dozen books – all different, all completely unique to yourselves. You have paid your money and come on this course, and in doing so you have embarked on a leap of faith. You have put yourselves in our hands so that we might show you the way to draw the stories from your conscious and sub-conscious and to put them on paper in a manner that is not only entertaining for your readers, but also a revelation to yourselves.’

  ‘Funny,’ Sean said. ‘I thought we were here to learn to write horror.’

  This time Nick picked up on the interruption. ‘Horror, comedy, tragedy, romance... they all spring from the same well. It’s the first and most important lesson we can teach you.’

  Thirty minutes later Nick was summing up. ‘.... And please remember we are here to help you, so if you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ he finished.

  When there was no response Nancy Gilmour approached the front. ‘It hasn’t escaped our notice that you haven’t eaten since you got here.’ She had a thin, breathy voice, like a breeze rippling through grass. ‘What with the train being late, Spike hanging around at the station… etcetera etcetera, things have been thrown into disarray. So if you could all make your way to the dining room next door, a meal has been prepared. It’s a cold buffet, I’m afraid, but it should be more than substantial.’

  There was a general murmur of approval.

  ‘I said I was famished hours ago.’ Sean said.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake! Can’t you give it a rest?’ Cat O’Malley wheeled on him.

  Steve had been stealing glances at her throughout the introductory talk. She had paid the tutors very little attention but had spent the time staring blankly out though the French doors. She had seemed totally disinterested in what they had to say. Steve decided there was something slightly mysterious about Cat, and it was a mystery he would like to unravel.

  Steve started to pile his plate high as he moved from the sandwiches to the pieces of chicken, bowls of savoury rice and other delights. His eyes scanned the room. Allen Mason was talking to Cat and Sean, and Cat looked bored. She caught Steve’s eye and mouthed, ‘Help,’ at him. He grinned back at her, and then turned as he felt someone at his elbow.

  ‘You nearly missed my little welcome speech,’ Roger DeMarney said, helping himself to a sandwich and popping it into his mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ Steve said, ‘Sorry about that. I dozed off on the bed. The journey must have tired me more than I realised.’

  ‘When you’ve got your food you’ll have to have a chat with Allen Mason. Allen’s brother will be along later in the week. He’s the “famous author” we mention in the literature. Edward Mason... quite a coup to get him.’

  Steve racked his brains. He couldn’t remember reading anything by Edward Mason. He didn’t even recognise the name. He said as much to DeMarney.

  ‘Well no, you wouldn’t. He writes under several pseudonyms.’ He rattled off a couple of instantly recognisable names.

  Steve gave a low whistle. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed.’ He noticed Tim move away to talk to Lisa. Cat had returned to the food table and was staring at the chicken legs with thinly disguised disgust.

  ‘Yes,’ DeMarney said with a smile. ‘I thought you might be. Ah, look, Allen’s free now. Come on.’

  Later, when Steve caught up with Lisa, he couldn’t rein in his enthusiasm. ‘Great here, isn’t it? Have you met Nick and Allen yet? I’ve just had a brilliant conversation with them. Allen’s brother is...’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Lisa said wearily. ‘Tim told me.’ She was feeling tired, worn out from the journey. Unlike Steve she hadn’t had the benefit of an early evening nap, and she was finding it hard now to keep her eyes open. She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty. It was ridiculously early to think about going to bed, but that’s exactly what she wanted to do.

  ‘I think I’m going to go up,’ she told Steve.

  ‘You are kidding? It’s only half past eight.’

  ‘I know what time it is, but I couldn’t care less. I’m all in. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  She sketched a wave at the others, but only Tim responded. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said.

  Lisa’s legs were aching horribly and she found it a real struggle to climb the stairs to the first floor. She opened her bedroom door. The room faced west and light from the dying sun still poured into the room. She went across and grabbed the curtains, but movement in the garden below attracted her attention before she could pull them. There were figures on the path that went partway around the lake. A woman pushing someone in a wheelchair.

  The woman appeared to be in her thirties, very smartly dressed with blond hair pulled severely back from her face and gathered in a French pleat. Lisa looked hard and squinted her eyes but couldn’t make out any details of the passenger in the wheelchair. Whoever it was was dressed entirely in black, even to the point of having a shawl draped about the head.

  Lisa suddenly felt sick as images from her nightmare came flooding back to the forefront of her mind. ‘Oh my God!’ she said aloud.

  Almost as if she had heard her the woman on the path looked back towards the house, turning the wheelchair slightly so that the occupant might also see.

  Quickly Lisa pulled the curtains closed, but not before the figure in the chair raised an arm and appeared to point directly at her. Lisa retreated to the bed, the sense of dread she was feeling almost like a living presence sharing the room with her. She fought to control it, telling herself not to be so stupid.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous!’ she said to herself. ‘It was a dream that’s all. You’re getting paranoid, Benson.’ She stood, walked to the window and pulled the curtains wide.

  The garden was empty.

  There was no sign of the woman or the wheelchair. The lake was placid and calm – two ducks were swimming out from the bank towards the island.

  Nothing more normal, she thought to herself. And then the ducks disappeared.

  One moment
they were swimming serenely across the smooth green water, then, with a suddenness that made her gasp aloud they had gone – dragged under by something lurking beneath the surface; something that attacked with such speed and accuracy and total finality, that there was barely a ripple on the water where the ducks had been. She stared at the water for a good five minutes but the ducks didn’t reappear.

  6

  ‘So Steven, would you like to become a full time author?’ Nancy had cornered Steve by the fireplace. She was a small, intense woman with cropped brown hair and a thin, pale face, which made her large brown eyes seem huge.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he said. He was aware of Cat watching him with undisguised amusement on her face. She had watched the woman grill both Tim and Sean in a similar fashion. So far Nancy had avoided talking to the girls. She didn’t seem interested in them.

  ‘So what are you doing at the moment?’ Nancy asked, pressing in even closer. So much so that Steve was aware that she had extremely bad breath. He winced as it fanned across his face. Nancy didn’t appear to notice, but watched him, wide-eyed, waiting for his reply.

  ‘I’m working in a factory that makes umbrellas.’

  She looked surprised and slightly disappointed with such a mundane answer. ‘I would have had you pictured as a student,’ she said.

  Steve shrugged. He had no wish to tell her that the only reason he took the factory job was to help his mother out with the weekly bills. He did have it in mind to one day go back to college and complete his education, but that was a few years off yet. The factory job paid well, and didn’t tax his brain too much, leaving his mind free to concentrate on his stories.

  Suddenly the woman seemed to lose interest in him and drifted off in search of more stimulating conversation. Steve grinned at Cat and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.