The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  Johnny's ribs have been partially worn away now, and the creature's thin black fingertips are grinding through the top of his spine.

  I'm going to try the window again.

  It's my only hope.

  So long as I continue to write without taking even the briefest break, I'll be okay.

  Now I'm balancing the notebook carefully as I get to my feet. I can't put any pressure on my left hand, of course, and my right ankle is agony as well, but I know I can do this. I'll probably end up making a lot of noise, but that doesn't matter. I just have to keep writing as I climb out, and make sure I don't drop the notebook this time, and then everything will be okay.

  I'm going to reach up with my left hand and grab the window-ledge.

  The pain is too much.

  My left hand is up there now, but I can't uncurl my fingers. Every time I try, I feel the broken bones grinding against each other and ripping the inside of my flesh. I'm trying over and over again, but as I look up and see my damaged hand in the moonlight, all I can see is the fingers trembling slightly.

  I can't use my right hand, though.

  I need my right hand so I can write. So long as I keep writing, I know I won't get hurt.

  I have to use my left hand.

  I can hear the creature still scratching at Johnny's body, but I don't dare turn around. Instead, I'm still trying to open the broken fist of my left hand, so that I can grab the ledge.

  There's no other choice.

  I have to do this.

  The pain is incredible, and I'm letting out a faint whimper as sweat runs down my face, but I look up and watch as I slowly force my fingers to uncurl. I can still feel the broken bones jostling and tearing inside the skin and I can hear a cracking sound, but now I'm not going to let anything stop me. There are tears in my eyes, and my bottom lip is trembling. I didn't know anything could hurt this much.

  I've done it.

  I feel as if my entire hand is burning, but I've uncurled the fingers and now I'm using them to grip the ledge.

  Please let this work.

  Please.

  I think the creature just came closer.

  I don't dare move, with my hand still holding the ledge, but the scratching sound stopped a moment ago and I heard a faint shuffling noise. Something's edging closer behind my shoulder, and I swear I can feel a presence. I know the creature won't hurt me, though, not while I'm writing. If I keep writing in my notebook, I'll always be safe. That's just how things work. I've made mistakes in the past and stopped for brief periods, and terrible things have always happened. This time, I'll keep writing and the creature will leave me alone.

  It has to.

  Even though I can feel something sharp and thin brushing against the back of my neck.

  Even though I can feel something else against my shoulder, as if razor fingers are gently sliding across the fabric of my shirt.

  It'll leave me alone.

  I'm still writing, my pen's tip is still scratching against the page as I write these words. So long as I keep writing, the creature will never hurt me.

  Even though I can feel more and more of its sharp fingers curling gently against the side of my face.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: END OF ENTRIES, ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH THIS PARTICULAR NOTEBOOK. REMAINING PAGES BLANK. THERE'S A STREAK OF INK, SUGGESTING THAT THE PEN WAS ABOUT TO PRESS AGAINST THE PAGE AGAIN AND WAS THEN SUDDENLY PULLED AWAY.

  ***

  INVESTIGATING OFFICER'S REVIEW NOTE

  Joe,

  It's all bullshit, isn't it? I mean, come on, let's call a spade a spade. It's complete and utter bullshit.

  Those were the last pages from Polly Walker's diary, along with notes from the transcriber. I cut out a few sections that seemed particularly irrelevant. Lists, mostly. The girl's handwriting was appalling at best, and downright illegible in places. She squeezed the lines so close together that some of the pages looked like big black messes.

  There's no way she was constantly writing everything that happened, as it happened. She was certainly nuts, though, and I don't think we can really trust anything that she wrote. I'll speak to a psychiatrist, someone who knows about this hypergraphia condition, but I honestly don't believe it can be as bad as Polly claimed in her diary. She must have been exaggerating. I mean, come on, it's fashionable these days to have mental health problems. All the kids are like it.

  Forensic work is ongoing, both to determine the cause of the scratches on all the internal doors and walls, and to identify the piles of gray powder located in the basement. I know you think we might be missing something at the house, but I'm not so sure. We've gone through the place from top to bottom, several times over, and there's really nothing. It's just an empty house.

  I've requested a copy of archival files relating to the house, in particular those covering the disappearance of Oliver Weston several years ago. A connection is unlikely, but it's worth checking into. I'll let you know if I come up with anything of interest.

  In the meantime, the notebooks of Polly Walker are going to be stored in the evidence locker until such time as they're needed again by investigators. Copies of key pages have been sent to a specialist. If you ask me, the bottom line is that Polly Walker was mad as a box of frogs. She was probably a fantasist too. Totally deluded. Her diaries aren't reliable. Whatever happened to her and her family, it sure as hell wasn't caused by a big scratching ghost monster from the attic. We'll figure it all out eventually.

  Talk more at the pub on Friday.

  Yours,

  Detective Inspector John Paulson,

  Mereton Clark CID

  The Swimming Pool

  One

  It's still there this morning.

  Of course it is.

  Where the hell else would it be?

  As I trudge across the overgrown lawn, past a pile of broken patio furniture, I realize I can already hear the poor thing up ahead. I can't see it yet, of course. I can see the edge of the swimming pool, and I can see the top of the ladder that used to lead down into the water, but it's not until I get much closer than I'm able to see down to the bottom of the empty pool, where the zombie is still shuffling about and letting out occasional groans.

  Man, it must suck being this particular zombie.

  “Hey,” I say with a faint smile, standing at the edge and looking down into the drained pool. “Just your friendly neighborhood Amanda. So how are you doing this morning? Did anything fun happen during the night?”

  The creature immediately turns and looks up at me, before letting out a long, low guttural growl. Its rotten face is pretty goddamn foul to look at, even if I'm used to the sight by now. I watch as the zombie starts shuffling toward me, dragging its damaged left leg as it shuffles along. Honestly, I'd have thought that leg would've dropped off by now, but it keeps hanging on and the zombie seems to have adapted slightly, using the damn thing to support its weight just a little. That's pretty clever, I guess.

  When the creature gets to the bottom of the tiled wall, it looks straight up toward me and lets out another growl.

  “What's up?” I ask. “Hungry? Do you want to come climbing up to me, so you can eat my brains?”

  I hold my arms out at my sides.

  “Come on, then. Here I am! Come and get me!”

  I watch the creature's black, rotten eyes. Apparently they still work, because the zombie definitely seems to be able to see me, and I doubt it's tracking me by smell or any other sense. To test my theory yet again, I wander along the edge of the pool, taking care not to get too close, and then I stop at the top of the old metal ladder. Looking down, I see that the zombie is shuffling after me. Fortunately, this was a deep swimming pool and the tiled bottom is more than fifteen feet below ground level.

  The zombie can't even reach the ladder.

  It's been almost a week now since I first came here. I don't know exactly how long it has been since the zombie fell down into the empty, abandoned swimming pool, but I guess at some point it'll rot away
to nothing. I mean, it's not like there's any food down there, and I kind of feel sorry for the poor thing as it constantly shuffles around, trapped forever and with no hope of escape. Even a zombie deserves a little sympathy.

  Plus, the days are getting warmer. I'm sure sunburn isn't good for zombie skin.

  “I can't keep you company for too long today,” I tell it with a sigh. “I've got stuff going on back at home. This whole reconstruction thing is a real drag. That's what I never expected with the zombie apocalypse. I mean, sure, while it was happening, everything was super-intense. Those five months were crazy. But now the government is getting things back under control, and the zombies are pretty much gone, and we're rebuilding our civilization blah blah blah, and everything's kind of dull. I guess I got used to all the adrenaline, huh?”

  The zombie lets out another faint growl.

  “I feel your pain,” I tell it. “Don't worry, though. I haven't told anyone about you. I figure you can be my pet. I mean, you can't hurt anyone while you're down there, and I doubt anyone else is going to stumble across you. I hope not, anyway. They'd call the CDC immediately and have a team out here to destroy you. I prefer to let nature take its course. Besides, it's not like I've got any other friends. They're all dead.”

  Hearing a faint roaring sound, I look up just in time to see three jet fighters rushing overhead. Although the zombie outbreak is under control now, there are still occasional flare-ups that call for a rapid response from our boys and girls in uniform.

  “Ninety-seven per cent,” I continue, looking back down at the zombie. “You guys wiped out an estimated ninety-seven per cent of the world's human population. That's what they said on the emergency broadcast the other night, anyway. If you think about it, that's actually super efficient. A little longer, and you might have killed everyone.”

  The zombie groans again, and I can't help noticing that it sounds a little mournful.

  “A lot of the survivors have, like, PTSD and stuff,” I explain. “Some of them think we'll never get back to normal. I think they're just being pessimists. Things'll go back to how they were real soon. For most people, anyway. Everyone hates zombies, though. You're lucky I'm the one who found you, because if anyone else knew you were down there, you'd be toast.”

  I can't help smiling.

  “Thank you, Amanda,” I continue. “You're welcome, zombie.”

  Two

  “Military forces have dealt with a minor outbreak in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia,” the newscaster announces over the radio, “and another small cluster of cases in a town just north of the Swedish capital, Stockholm. Other than these two incidents, however, the CDC has confirmed that this week has been the calmest period since the crisis peaked, with cases expected to continue to decline. Sources at the CDC say that these sporadic clusters are to be expected while the last traces of the virus are eradicated.”

  “That's what they want us to think,” my lame-ass brother Scott mutters from the sofa. “I was talking to Daryl today, and his father thinks this is just a lull. There are clear signs that the virus is gonna get a second-wind and everything's gonna go to hell again.”

  “Daryl's father is a bullshit merchant,” Dad replies as he continues to clean his gun at the kitchen table. “And you can tell him I said that if you happen to run into him.”

  “Do you really think it's over?” Scott asks, turning to him. “Doesn't it seem kinda quick?”

  Dad shrugs. “Not really. It took a while for the CDC to get off their asses and figure out what was causing the virus to spread. Then they did something about it.”

  “And you're happy with that?” Scott asks. “You just trust the government when they promise there'll be no more zombies? How goddamn naive can you be, Dad? It's a goddamn conspiracy, that's what it is. They're not telling us the truth!”

  While they continue to argue, I step around the sofa so I can hear the radio a little better. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I look up at the speaker as the newscaster continues to give more information.

  “President Collins is expected to issue another address at midday, Pacific time,” the voice explains, “to give an update on the situation. Sources have already indicated that this is simply a routine update, and that no further significant developments are going to be announced. In addition, CDC sources continue to insist that a supposed outbreak near Las Vegas was simply a rumor that got out of control. Spokesmen Sam Nero told this program earlier that everyone has a duty to ensure that these rumors are contained.”

  “There was no outbreak near Las Vegas in the past week,” another voice says. Presumably this is the Sam Nero dude. “What happened was that a few rumors spread, and pretty quickly people were reporting it as fact. Let me be very clear. There has been not one single new zombie case in the past two days, and I can categorically assure everyone out there that nothing untoward has happened, or is happening, in or near Las Vegas.”

  “Liar,” Scott mutters dourly. “Of course he says that. It's his job to spew bullshit.”

  “But there are reports of scattered zombie outbreaks,” a female interviewer continues. “What should the public do about those?”

  “It's very unlikely that anyone will stumble upon any surviving zombies,” Mr. Nero explains. “However, it's still technically possible. If you do find a zombie, stay away and call the CDC immediately. In most cases, help will arrive within ninety minutes. If the zombie poses an immediate threat, obviously the best option is to shoot it in the head. But even if you think the zombie has been neutralized, do not approach the corpse. There have been cases of people being attacked, even when they believe the creature is dormant.”

  “Yeah, only total losers,” Scott says with a chuckle. “If I saw a zombie, I'd blow its goddamn brains out.”

  Turning to him, I can't help thinking that he's actually enjoying this.

  “There are no zombies in this neighborhood anymore,” Dad mutters. “That's a fact.”

  I can't help smiling. If only he knew that there was a zombie trapped in an empty swimming pool just a couple of miles from the house. He'd go nuts.

  “I'd still blow one apart if I saw one,” Scott brags. “Goddamn stupid, ugly things.”

  “You'd run a mile if you saw a zombie,” I say as I get to my feet. “You'd be terrified.”

  “No-one's going to be blowing any more zombies apart,” Dad says, still focusing on the job of cleaning his gun. “They're gone. It's over.”

  He glances at Scott.

  “Remember we have to go to the police station in the morning. They're gonna be handing out reconstruction jobs, and I want to get something that doesn't ruin my knees. That means being in the queue by 7am at the latest, 'cause they'll be giving out the cushiest jobs first. I want something easy, like verifying what other people are doing, stuff like that. At my age, after everything I've been through this year, there's no way I'm working on a labor site. I want a desk.”

  Stepping toward the radio, I start turning the dial. I'm still trying to find the science program that I know is being broadcast. Some doctors have been running autopsies on zombie carcasses, and reporting their findings in a series of shows. I want to hear what they've got to say, because I want to know how long I can expect it to take before the zombie in the swimming pool falls apart, but I can never find the right channel.

  “What's up with that goddamn radio?” Dad snaps, as static swirls from the speakers. “I want to hear the latest news!”

  Scott sighs as he gets up from the sofa and comes over to take a look. I step back just as he reaches me, and I watch as he turns the dial back to the main emergency news frequency. I know better by now than to try messing with the dial again. Dad'd only get furious.

  Turning, I make my way back past the sofa and through to the hallway, and then I wander to my bedroom. I can still hear Dad and Scott arguing, but I'm not interested in their constant back-and-forth. Instead, I head to my room. At least there, I can hear myself think.

  Three

&n
bsp; It lunges at me, grabbing my shoulders with its rotten hands and falling against my chest, knocking me to the ground. I feel a fine spray of foul-smelling saliva hit the side of my face, but none of it went in my mouth. Reaching up, I push my hands against the zombie's neck, trying to force its head back so it can't bite me. Most of the flesh is gone from the creature's face, but I'm pretty sure this is Mrs. Cole from the grocery store. She was always a polite old thing when she was alive, but the zombie version of her is pretty strong and I'm not sure I can hold her off for much longer.

  “Help!” I scream, hoping against hope that someone can hear me, as the old woman's teeth get closer and closer to my neck. “Someone help me, I'm -”

  Suddenly I feel her teeth starting to bite through my flesh.

  ***

  “No!” I yell, sitting up suddenly on the bed.

  It takes a moment before I realize that I was having another nightmare. Looking around the gloomy room, I wait in case there's any sign of Mrs. Cole, but all I see is all my usual stuff.

  “It was a dream,” I stammer, leaning back on the bed as I wait for the panic to wear off. “Just a dream. Just a horrible, very realistic, totally terrifying dream.”

  ***

  “Good morning, cutie-pie,” I say with a smile as I reach the edge of the swimming pool. “And how are you -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see to my horror that the zombie is over at the far end of the pool, leaning over some kind of body that has fallen down there. Feeling a flash of panic, I run around to get a better look, and finally I'm relieved to see that the body isn't human.