The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  In truth, he had wanted to leave early so that he could discuss with Eve his eerie meeting with Magda Cribben. He’d had to phone Eve from the office because his cell phone still wouldn’t reach Hollow Bay, although it worked fine outside the area, but it proved difficult to talk freely with co-workers in close proximity. He had told Eve that Magda hadn’t said a word to him, that she’d remained silent throughout the visit; he hadn’t mentioned the crazy next-door neighbour who maintained that Magda had not lost the power of speech but sometimes spoke in her sleep. As for ghosts running down corridors in the dead of night, well, he thought he’d omit this from his report for now.

  Face to face, he told her everything and Eve had become very quiet – if not pale – when he mentioned the crazy woman’s assertions that Magda Cribben still had the power of speech, even if it was only when she was dreaming, and that ghosts were also haunting the nursing home. It had all only served to deepen his wife’s belief in spirit children.

  The engineer had then worked solidly on his design for raising the marine turbine’s gearbox and generator above the water level so that maintenance could be carried out using a surface structure and ancillary vessel, and it was late afternoon before he came down again, hungry and thirsty because he had worked through lunch.

  He crossed the hall, but before he could enter the kitchen, the loud discordant sound of the doorbell brought him to a startled halt. Through the kitchen doorway he caught Eve’s surprised look in his direction. He shrugged and went to the front door to unlock it.

  The man standing outside with Loren was tall, at least six foot one or two, Gabe reckoned. The stranger wore a funny little Tyrolean hat with a small stiff feather stuck in its band.

  ‘Delivery of one young lady with a badly scraped knee,’ the stranger announced in a deep but friendly voice. Then, smiling, he introduced himself: ‘My name is Gordon Pyke. I think I might be of some help to you.’

  Gordon Pyke had the kindest eyes Gabe had ever seen. They were of the lightest blue and creases – laughter lines – spread from their corners almost to the man’s temples. He looked to be in his sixties – late, or early seventies, Gabe couldn’t tell – but his long figure looked strong and straight, only a slight paunch bulging against the lower buttons of his waistcoat, which was worn under a brown tweed jacket. An open fawn raincoat hung over both. He leaned on a stout walking stick that favoured his left leg.

  When Loren had explained that she had fallen on the bridge and Mr Pyke had helped her to the front door, Gabe had immediately invited him in out of the rain.

  Once inside, the stranger had removed his hat to reveal thin grey-black hair swept back over the dome of his head. He sported a small goatee beard, which was also black flecked with grey, as were the thick sideburns that partially disguised the largeness of his ears. His smile was warm, with teeth so perfect Gabe guessed they had to be manufactured.

  Eve came out of the kitchen, Cally following, and went straight to Loren. She bent to examine her daughter’s injured knee.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said sympathetically. ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I slipped and fell on the bridge,’ Loren told her, putting on a brave face even though the scrape was really sore by now. ‘Mr Pyke picked me up.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find it’s not a mortal wound,’ Pyke said teasingly.

  ‘Thank you for helping Loren,’ said Eve, satisfied that the injury really wasn’t serious.

  ‘You are Mr and Mrs Caleigh, I take it.’ The tall stranger looked first at Gabe, and then at Eve. ‘Yes, you’re certainly Eve Caleigh. The photograph of you in the North Devon Dispatch was an excellent likeness. Not all newspaper pictures are.’

  ‘You saw that?’ Gabe was both resigned and suspicious.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Not the sort of publicity one normally seeks, is it? But newspapers enjoy publishing such hokum because they increase circulation figures.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ Gabe suspected they had one of those sightseers they had dreaded on their hands.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it is, Mr Caleigh.’

  Gabe felt his heart sink. He would thank the man, and then get rid of him.

  ‘But not out of mere curiosity,’ Pyke continued, ‘I can assure you of that.’ He smiled at Gabe, and then at Eve.

  Eve spoke to Loren. ‘Go into the kitchen and wait. I’ll be there in a minute to clean your knee and put some ointment on it to stop any infection. It might need a plaster. Oh, and take Cally with you.’

  Loren limped off, leading Cally back into the kitchen, while Eve returned her attention to the tall man with the nice smile and pleasant manner.

  ‘So you believe all this nonsense about ghosts,’ Gabe said when Loren and Cally were out of earshot.

  ‘No. It’s precisely because I don’t that I’m here,’ came the reply.

  Gabe and Eve exchanged glances and Pyke gave a short, deep-throated chuckle.

  ‘I came here, Mr and Mrs Caleigh, because I seek out so-called “ghosts” for a living.’ He smiled at Gabe’s pained expression. ‘You might be relieved to hear,’ Pyke went on, ‘that rarely, if ever, do I find them.’

  Gabe shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘No. Well, as it happens I don’t believe in hauntings either and eight times out of ten I find my disbelief is vindicated. There are no such things as ghosts and, if you’ll allow me, I’m confident I’ll prove to you that this house isn’t haunted.’

  ‘So you’re one of those guys who investigate spooky places.’

  ‘I’m a psychic investigator, or a parapsychologist, if you like, and I do investigate houses and buildings where it’s claimed – usually mistakenly – that they’re haunted by supernatural forces – apparitions, phantom voices or poltergeists.’

  ‘Poltergeists?’

  ‘Mischievous demon spirits.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what they are. I just don’t give ’em much credence.’

  ‘Good, then we agree.’ But again, Pyke took in Gabe’s doubtful expression.

  ‘Let’s take poltergeists as an example then,’ the self-pronounced psychic investigator resumed. ‘Such activity involves objects flying across rooms, doors opening and closing, furniture movement, knocking sounds, even smells – there are a whole range of incidents that can startle or terrify the poor victim. But the fact is, they are often instigated by the kinetic mind energy of pubescent girls, whose emotional and hormonal state is undergoing profound changes. Or they can be caused by individuals who are in high-stress situations.’

  ‘Are you telling us that what has happened here is all in our minds?’ Eve’s voice was cautious, yet challenging.

  ‘No, I’m only giving you an example of what might be the cause of paranormal activities.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Loren,’ Gabe guessed.

  ‘Not necessarily, although her age could suggest it’s her. But you or your wife might equally be the epicentre of such activity. That is, if either one of you is deeply anxious or distressed at this time. Perhaps you both are.’

  Once more, Gabe and Eve glanced at each other.

  ‘Yes,’ said Eve, regarding Pyke again. ‘Yes, there’s much more going on here that isn’t mentioned in the newspaper.’

  ‘Then why don’t we make ourselves comfortable and discuss precisely what has been happening?’ Pyke turned first to Gabe and then to Eve, and the warmth of his smile was persuasive.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Pyke was explaining, ‘energies, especially if they’re traumatic or violent, can be absorbed into the very fabric of a building itself, as if the stone and timbers act like a tape recorder, to be released as images or sounds, or both, at some later date.’

  The three of them were in Crickley Hall’s sitting room, Gabe and Eve together on the couch, the psychic investigator in the high-backed armchair, his cane resting between his legs. Gabe had not yet laid a fire, so the room was chilly and dank.

  ‘It’s these type of events that seem to register
mostly, because the energy released at the time is extremely potent. It’s when those occurrences are subsequently replayed as images and sounds that they’re taken for supernatural encounters.’

  Eve had related some of the unusual incidents that had happened in Crickley Hall that past week and Pyke had listened attentively, making sympathetic noises here and there, a nod of his head occasionally. Sometimes he gave a benign smile, other times a deep frown.

  ‘Now, this house,’ he continued, ‘is old and full of draughts – although I’d rather call them air currents. They’re certainly evident in this room. The building itself is situated in a deep-sided gorge through which winds and breezes are channelled. A sudden fierce gust could easily have caught the swing outside, frightening your youngest daughter and consequently knocking you to the ground. Now, you tell me there’s a well to an underground river in the basement area, from which I imagine all manner of air currents rise, and on occasion they probably bring vapour mists with them. Mists that you have misguidedly thought to be apparitions.’

  Eve looked doubtful, but it was Gabe who protested, even though in truth he was prepared to believe in the investigator’s theories. ‘They were scooting all over the place, following each other.’

  ‘Vapours driven by rampant but localized winds. In your own mind you might view them as having purpose or direction, but the reality is that they were merely carried along on the air currents.’

  ‘The banging from inside the closet?’

  ‘All manner of causes. Wind, hot waterpipes, bats, rodents, vibrations . . .’

  ‘But the cupboard door moved; it rattled in its frame,’ asserted Eve, ‘as if something inside was pushing against it. And when we opened the door, the cupboard was empty, there was no living thing in there.’

  ‘If it were a rodent it would have disappeared through whatever opening it had used for entry. Or it may well have been vibrations from internal piping.’

  ‘Well, there are hot and cold waterpipes running through the closet . . .’ Gabe said uncertainly but willing to be convinced.

  ‘When a person is in shock or frightened, it’s all too easy for their own imagination to exaggerate what is really happening.’ Pyke leaned forward, his large hands resting over the curved top of his cane. ‘Take the cellar door as an example. You claim you always lock it, yet it constantly appears to unlock itself. The lock is obviously faulty, or the frame is slightly warped, probably both, so the locking bolt works itself loose with the continual pressures of the draughts coming from the well below being funnelled up the stairway.’

  Plausible, thought Gabe. Just.

  ‘Puddles on the floor? I think perhaps water either seeps up from minute cracks in the cement between the flagstones, or there are slow, tiny leaks in the roof and ceiling.’

  ‘But the puddles disappear,’ said Eve, sceptically.

  ‘Obviously not through evaporation, but perhaps the water sinks back into the same cracks that caused them. Those cracks are so fine that they can’t be seen unless examined closely. The same applies to those created by leaks in the ceiling – they merely drain away. Puddles on the staircase could be formed by cracks in the ceiling directly above or by rainwater driven in through small gaps in the large window. They would disappear through splits in the stairboards.’

  ‘But I saw children in outdated clothes dancing in the hall,’ Eve insisted, her hands clasped tightly over her knees.

  ‘Yes, that’s interesting.’ Pyke settled back in the armchair again, his voice and his manner somehow calming. ‘Tell me, what had you been occupied with just before you had this vision? Sleeping, perhaps?’

  ‘No, it was mid-morning and I was wide awake.’ She thought back. ‘Yes, I’d been in the kitchen looking at the spinning top.’

  ‘Spinning top?’

  Eve hesitated. ‘We found an old-fashioned spinning top in the attic among the other toys. It looked like it had never been used. I oiled it and got it spinning.’

  ‘You spun it?’

  ‘Yes. It was stiff at first, but I soon had it turning.’

  ‘These toys spin very fast, don’t they?’

  ‘Very fast. The colours merge into a kind of whiteness as it makes a high-pitched humming noise.’

  ‘What’s the pattern or design? They’re usually very colourful.’

  ‘It’s a picture that goes all the way around. Of – of children holding hands and dancing in a circle.’ She knew what Pyke was about to suggest.

  ‘And the figures blended, became a white blur . . .?’ Pyke prompted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You watched it spin. I suppose it might have some kind of hypnotic effect if you stare at it too long and too hard. Revolving patterns at certain speeds can induce trance-like states. Is that what happened to you, Mrs Caleigh?’

  ‘I – I don’t think so. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I suggest that’s precisely what happened; and when you went out into the hall, the vision of dancing children became a reality to you. You were still in a semi-trance, you were in a waking dream.’

  ‘But Cally saw the children too. It was because of her call that I went out there.’

  ‘Auto-suggestion.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘I assume you are very close to your daughters. The mother-child relationship is one of the strongest bonds possible, one that’s full of intuition and shared feelings. A mother can often know why her baby is crying without there being any physical evidence of something wrong. In the same way, a baby or small child can often sense the mood of their mother without a word being spoken.’

  Eve thought of her intuitive connection with Cam, but it was Gabe who spoke.

  ‘What are you saying, Mr Pyke? Cally saw the children because the thought of them was already inside my wife’s head?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’ Pyke thumped the top of his cane enthusiastically. ‘The almost hallucinogenic vision of children dancing in a circle was created by the spinning top and was fixed in your wife’s mind. It transferred itself to your daughter, who thought she was seeing the real thing and so called out to the mother.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Gabe scratched the side of his chin, perplexed. ‘The night before last, Loren woke up screaming. She said someone had beaten her with a stick. Was that some kinda thought transference too?’ He was thinking of the punishment stick they had found earlier that afternoon and how disgusted and horrified both he and Eve had felt at the sight of it.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But there is an underlying emotional tension in this house; I sensed it as soon as I entered. Have you suffered a bereavement recently, or had bad news?’

  Eve looked down into her lap, leaving it for Gabe to answer.

  ‘Our five-year-old son went missing a year ago,’ he said dispassionately. ‘We’re still grieving.’ Glancing at Eve, he added, ‘And we’re still hoping.’

  ‘Ah.’ Pyke brought his steepled fingers up to his mouth and stared into the mid-distance. ‘That could explain much. You must all be in a fragile emotional condition. Perhaps Loren, when she felt herself being beaten, was punishing herself because she is here, safe with her parents, when her young brother is gone. Perhaps she feels guilty. You’ve heard of the stigmata, people suffering the wounds of Christ on the Cross? It’s a rare but accepted phenomenon. An inborn guilt causes those who devoutly believe Christ suffered for the sins of mankind to take on the agony of repentance themselves. I merely suggest Loren might feel some unreasonable blame for your loss and so had to be punished.’

  He let out a compassionate sigh. ‘I take it there were no visible signs of her pain?’

  It was Eve who shook her head; Gabe was too busy trying to understand what Pyke had just suggested to them. The investigator had to be wrong: Loren was a normal well-balanced kid; there was nothing for her to feel guilty about. And besides, she’d never had that kind of dream before.

  ‘If anyone was to blame,’ said Eve, ‘it was me. I let Cam out of my sight
that day.’

  ‘Eve . . .’ Gabe reached for her hand to comfort her, even though he had become a little weary of the guilt she imposed upon herself. He wished he could take that burden from her, but even after all this time he just didn’t know how.

  Gordon Pyke was about to expound further when Loren entered the room bearing a tray on which there were two teacups in their saucers, a jumbo coffee mug that was for Gabe, and a bowl of sugar, a teaspoon dipped into it. Gabe noticed she had even laid out a small plate of biscuits. Cally trailed after her.

  Treading slowly so that nothing was split, Loren made her way directly to the investigator.

  ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea, Mr Pyke,’ she said respectfully. ‘I didn’t know if you took sugar.’

  Gabe was impressed. Loren was not usually so congenial towards adults, especially when they were strangers. Polite, always. But most times she was too shy to come forward like this. She must have taken an instant liking to the man who had helped her on the bridge.

  Eve saw that Loren’s injured knee had stopped bleeding, although the scrape looked red and sore. She had meant to clean it for Loren and dab on antiseptic, but Gordon Pyke had kept them talking in the sitting room.

  His cane now leaning on the arm of the chair, Pyke stretched forward to take a cup and saucer from the tray. He gave Loren a broad smile.

  ‘No sugar, my dear, but I’ll help myself to a biscuit if I may?’

  Almost coyly, she returned his smile. She really did like Pyke, thought Gabe again, and he wasn’t surprised – there was something reassuring about the big man. Cally, as ever, was indifferent, as she was with all grown-ups.

  So far, Pyke had impressed Gabe with his grounded logic for things considered paranormal or supernatural, although he could tell Eve was far from convinced. It broke down to two attitudes, he supposed: the willingness to believe in ghosts or believe in what Pyke was saying. Eve was definitely in the former category and Gabe blamed Lili Peel for that.

  After Loren had given Eve her tea and Gabe his coffee, she leaned the tray against the side of the couch and squeezed herself in beside her father. Cally pressed herself against Eve’s knees. Both girls eyed the stranger as he bit off half his biscuit. He munched away, a small smile showing through his short beard as though he were content in their company.