The music was melancholy, was regret, was sorrow, and I fed it with my own. And still that light seemed to fill the chamber. Do you know the 14th Sonata, Mrs Rhodes? The first movement, the adagio sostenuto, does not raise its voice; it is quiet, it is modest, and it gently fades away. I had played it from memory, with my eyes very nearly shut; now, as the last notes sounded, I opened them again.
The room was still bright, and there were shadows on the floor. Of the chairs, I thought at first, but then I saw that the shapes were wrong. The chairs – all of the chairs – were occupied.
I turned and looked. They were silhouetted against the pale light that shone through the French windows. They were silent and unmoving; I could not make out their faces – which is not, I can assure you both, any cause for regret on my part – but knew that they were watching me. This vision lasted but a moment; as the pale glow faded, so did their silhouettes, like shadows on the air, leaving only the empty chairs behind.
The light was gone, and did not come again. The music room was almost dark now, so overcast with rainclouds was the sky. There was a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, and more rain streamed in torrents down the glass.
I looked away at last, not a little shaken. Yet, I told myself, I could not have seen the spirits of the dead. It was nonsensical – even should I grant that such things could make themselves manifest; Springcross House was a new building, not some old castle with a rich history of bloodletting. The only death I knew of to have taken place here had been that of Mrs Thorne, not of a whole ensemble of children – for the seated figures had been very small.
Whatever it was, it could do me no harm. So I told myself, at least; convincing my rebellious instincts was another matter. Under other circumstances I would have wanted to continued playing, but now I only wanted to leave. I reached to lower the lid, and as I did looked towards the door of the room.
It was open, and Mr Thorne stood watching me in silence, arms folded, face as impassive – and as awful in its impassivity – as that of some dreadful sacrificial idol.
“Mr Thorne,” I stammered, but could say no more. You may perhaps guess at the tumult my thoughts were thrown in. I had no doubt that my employer was angered, and I could hardly play the innocent – the rooms had not only been left undisturbed but had been intended to remain so, and the mere fact they were unlocked was no excuse.
In that moment I was certain that I was to lose my position, and that there would be no letter of recommendation for me, no reference to help me find another situation. Such money as I had saved would sustain me a few short months, and then I would be facing the same grim choice I had before being offered this position, between the workhouse and whatever other unsavoury alternatives there might be. I had known, how could I not have known, that this was, for Mr Thorne, a kind of sacred ground? I was ruined, doomed by my own foolishness, by a few minutes of vain idleness. How could I have been so stupid? What would my father have said, could he see me now?
I cannot quite tell how much time passed before he spoke. It might have been seconds, or minutes, where I tried and failed to meet those stern grey eyes. “You play well,” he said at last. “Where did you learn?”
Caught quite by surprise, I was at first lost for words, finding them only when Mr Thorne’s eyebrows rose in imperious demand for an answer. “My father.”
“Of course. He was clearly a good teacher. Or had an apt pupil, perhaps.” He nodded at the piano. “The instrument was my wife’s.”
My face burned. “I am sorry, Mr Thorne. I –”
“I have little use for company, Miss Carson. My wife, on the other hand, greatly enjoyed the society of others. I can take or leave the trappings of wealth and power. She was neither vain nor greedy, but appreciated the regard those things brought her – it is a truth, deny it as we will, that a book is judged by its cover. And so when I had Springcross House built, there were rooms like this, for her to entertain guests. They have been unused since her death.”
“Mr Thorne, I’m very sorry – I meant no disrespect –” I knew I sounded abject, but the fate this job preserved me from was still very much on my mind. Pride comes more easily to someone who has no such fear hanging over her. But he went on.
“She played very well,” he said. “I’d forgotten... how pleasant it could be.”
His face remained as stone, his voice level, but the words – they did not come easily. It was a little like hearing a machine forced to perform in a way it was not used to: cogs and gears creaked and struggled, unfitted to the task, and yet accomplished it. Arodias Thorne, I realised, though appearing made of flint, might be of a more varied composition after all.
He gestured towards the piano. “Please, Miss Carson. Continue.”
I rested my fingers on the keys, tried to pick up the sonata’s threads. I had finished the first movement, the adagio sostenuto; now came the second, the allegretto. After the first movement’s quiet melancholy, this was bright, joyful, full of sunlight and hope. I let my thoughts turn to the love I’d hoped to know – that, perhaps, only perhaps, I still might. When that ended I plunged, without hesitation or a glance at Mr Thorne, into the final movement – presto agitato, full of storm and fury. By now I was playing with a kind of mad, exhilarated defiance, no longer knowing or caring what game was being played, caught only in the heady moment, at last doing something that gave me joy.
At last I finished the final movement and was at rest, spent, leaning over the keys as the last notes echoed away and the room once more was silent. Only then did I look up and turn towards Mr Thorne for a response.
But the door to the music room was closed, and he was not there.
Chapter Six
The Lost Garden
28th October 2016
ALICE CRIED OUT when the first of the children seized hold of her, sharp tiny claws piercing the skin. Others lunged and caught at her too – they leapt, like cats, clutching at her arms when she raised them to shield her eyes.
The first thing she realised was that they were light – lighter than any child ought to be. They were like shells, or dolls of straw or papier-mâché; they hadn’t the weight, and maybe that meant they hadn’t the strength.
But they were still dangerous. She felt one coil around her feet, and kicked out, shrieking. Another leapt up, sank claws into her back; another still gouged at her buttocks. She ran at the wall, crushing the ones holding onto her arms between her body and the plaster; the weak, asthmatic hissing of their squeals, little more than high-pitched breaths, again had a feline quality.
She turned round and flung herself backwards against the wall. More squeals. But when she opened her eyes, the other children were gathered in the centre of the room and creeping towards her. If she could stay on her feet, see what she was doing, she could deal with them. But if they tripped her up, or if those claws got at her eyes, it would be another story; they’d press home their advantage, and they wouldn’t stop.
Shaking and kicking the last of them away, she was surprised how calm she felt. She thought of clouds of gas swirling round the heart of a dead star: the outermost thoughts were of pain and panic, and dazed fright as to what these things were, what they wanted with her and why, but the hard, chill core of her was steady and calculating. Kat had told her, she remembered, that everyone had inner resources like that, survival mechanisms that kicked in when there was a crisis. You’d often surprise yourself with how well you coped.
Get to the door, pull it shut, lock it if you can – keep the little bastards penned up in the room. But even as she reached the door, she saw the children had considered the same possibility. One flung himself at the bedroom door to pin it back against the far wall; others darted through the entrance. Christ, they were swarming everywhere; it was pointless to try and stem the tide. She ran out onto the landing.
Two leapt over the banister rails and landed on the staircase, waiting for her. Others stood or crouched along the landing itself, between her and the top of the st
airs. Christ, she thought, but she went forward anyway; there were others behind her. She tried not to think of one landing again on her back.
There was a noise above her. She looked up to see one of the children clinging to the ceiling. Its head swivelled a full hundred and eighty degrees to face backwards, grinning down at her.
There were four or five of the children on the stairs now, creeping forward, crouching ready to jump. The nearest was three feet away. She risked a glance upwards: the one on the ceiling had been joined by another. The children on the stairs grinned up at her, their white eyes avid.
White eyes, yes; they all had white eyes, the iris and pupil curdled over, milky in colour. They looked blind at first glance, but they weren’t. They followed you, focused on you: they saw.
Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back, and the ones above were vying for her attention. They were herding her, trying to keep her distracted. Then a sudden attack, and with the banister to her right, it would be easy to send her over. A fatal fall on the stairs. History of mental health problems. Loss of her daughter. Very sad. Mum and Dad devastated by her loss as she was by Emily’s, and blaming themselves, for the rest of their lives, without cause.
Alice charged forward, arms up in front of her, kicking out at half-visible shapes. They hissed and scattered. Another fell on her back, tangling in her hair; she reached the top of the stairs and drove her shoulders back against the wall, crushing it and shaking it free. It clawed at her ankles, hissing. She kicked it away.
Straight down the stairs, no looking back. Kick out at the ones in front of you. They flew away, bouncing weightlessly. She didn’t look up, just grabbed hold of the banister and staggered down, eyes fixed on the front door. Get out and then what? Go into Manchester, stay at a hotel? Never mind that now; what mattered was escaping these monsters.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, ran down the hall. At the door she risked one backward glance; the children were sitting in rows upon the stairs, backs straight, feet together, hands clasped neatly in their laps. Their smiles might have been angelic if not for the blind white stare of their eyes.
They weren’t following her. Perhaps their only purpose was to drive her out of the house, to keep it for themselves. In that case they could have it, and gladly. She jammed her key into the lock, turned it, heard the tumblers click. Then it was open and she was outside.
But something was wrong. Where were the streetlights? Where were the cars parked along the roadside? Where was the road? She couldn’t see any other lights anywhere, and from this hill she should have been able to see the streetlights marching down Collarmill Road, the shops below, the cars going up and down and back and forth. Christ, the city of Manchester was right below her; it should be there, a million tiny lights, but there was only the dark. A power cut? But her lights hadn’t gone out, and nor would those of the cars.
She could feel the ground under her feet; it should have been flat and hard, the concrete slabs of the garden path, but it was soft, undulating, grassy. The night was cloudy, but the moon and stars gave some light, and with the front door open, the light from the hall spilled out ahead of her. There was no front garden, no garden wall or gate, no pavement or road. Just a slope of grass and earth and rock.
There were noises from up ahead, from the dark: grunts and snarls that resembled speech, sounds of soft movement. And then from behind her came another sound – the giggling of children – and the spill of light in front of her narrowed.
They were closing the front door. Alice leapt, managed to thrust her arm through the gap so the door slammed on her shoulder. She yelped in pain and another chorus of giggles met her. Christ, she’d choke the little bastards to death, one by one, assuming that was possible. They slammed themselves against the door, but even combined, their weight wasn’t that much, and despite the pain, Alice threw the door wide, scattering the children.
As she leapt back inside, fresh cries came from the dark and she looked back. Half-seen shapes flickered in the dim light, and then one ran into it, bellowing.
He was a man, but of what age she couldn’t be sure. He was bearded, wore a tunic, together with a bronze helm and a breastplate, and when he saw her he shouted and cocked an arm back, with a spear ready to throw.
“Shit!” Alice slammed the door and ducked sideways from it, keeping low as the voice bellowed outside. For a brief moment it seemed the man might have changed his mind, but a moment later one of the glass panels in the door exploded, splintered glass showering Alice and the hallway as the spear sailed through, falling to bounce and clatter on the floor as it slid into the kitchen.
Alice leapt up. The dark beyond the front door was empty again, but when she turned the children were all grinning down at her from the stairs. The living-room door opened wide to her left; another child stood in it. Alice stumbled up the hallway – it was the only way left to go – looking up at the stairs, in case the children tried leaping on her. The door to the ground floor bedroom opened; two children giggled at her.
Alice ran into the kitchen. A backward glance showed the hallway filling up with advancing children. She kicked the door shut, propped a chair under the handle.
There was only one way now – the back door. But where would that lead? Into her familiar backyard, or elsewhere?
A crash, and the kitchen door jumped in its frame. Then again. The impact sounded impossibly heavy, even for all the children attacking en masse. It didn’t seem possible they could muster such force, but if it wasn’t them, then what was it? She hadn’t heard the front door break open, but what if it was the lunatic with the spear? Or something worse, something she still hadn’t encountered?
Alice ran to the back door, pulled the handle, but nothing happened. Well, of course not; she’d locked it. She fumbled out her keys. The kitchen door thudded again; she was sure she heard plaster dust trickle from the ceiling and patter on the lino.
The key turned; the lock clicked. She wrenched the door open and staggered out into the night beyond.
Again, the light inside the house lit up something of what lay outside, and once again it bore no resemblance to anything she’d expected to see. Her backyard consisted of a long stretch of yellowish grass and overgrown shrubbery, with battered plastic chairs and a table, concrete paving with plastic wheelie-bins tucked in one corner; plain wooden fencing between concrete posts, a wooden gate. None of that was visible here, and there was no streetlight, nor any sound of traffic.
On the other hand, it wasn’t the empty wilderness of the hillside, either. The light shone on grass, yes, and on thick high growths of vegetation, but she stood on some kind of light-coloured pathway that crunched underfoot. She kicked at it, then crouched and touched it: gravel. It poured through her fingers. She could feel it. It was real.
Giggling sounded behind her, but even as she started to turn, the light from the open door was narrowing. White-eyed faces grinned at her through the gap as the door swung closed. She stood up, took an irresolute step towards the house, then stopped. The door swung shut. A moment later there was a click of a turning lock, and the kitchen light went out.
There was an implosion of darkness, rushing in to fill the space where the light had been. Alice blinked, squinted, rubbed her eyes. When she looked again she could better make out what was there, and also what wasn’t.
There were trees and clumps of other plants, exotic ones grown wild and high. There were winding gravel paths, and here and there a statue. But no buildings. Her house was gone.
Chapter Seven
The Ogre
28th October 2016
ODDLY ENOUGH, SOME of Alice’s fear went away at this point. Yes, the house had disappeared, but so had the children. Nor was there any sign of the madman who had flung the spear. Wherever she was now, it seemed – so far – quiet and without any threat to her.
In the long run, of course, she needed the world she knew – the world she came from, of brick walls and streetlights, cars and streets half-cob
bled and half-tarmacked. And, yes, the world of her dead daughter, too; that was reality, and she could do nothing but engage with it and face it on its own terms. How tempting the prospect of some other realm that her desires could readily shape; how tempting, and how illusory.
She must use her reason, must be logical. Rational. She was a scientist, or had been. She might be again. She must review her experiences. Monstrous children had appeared from nowhere and attacked her, trying to force her into a fatal accident. One reality outside the front door; another, completely different, out back. And neither resembled the one that should exist.
Logic offered only two possible conclusions: either her perceptions were accurate, and the normal laws of space and time had ceased to function in her specific case, or her perception was faulty. She was seeing things that weren’t there. And hearing them.
Not to mention feeling them. The gravel crunched underfoot; she reached down and touched it again, felt it between her fingers.
The most likely explanation was that in reality she was wandering around inside the house or in her backyard, while the wild garden was in her heard. But there wasn’t any gravel in the backyard, so where was she? Had she gone further afield without realising it? How awry had her perceptions gone?
These were questions without an answer, at least until she had more information. If this was a psychotic episode, it would end eventually. She’d find herself back at 378 Collarmill Road, Higher Crawbeck, and she could talk to her doctor about adjusting her dosage.
The Feast of All Souls Page 6