The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013

by Angela Slatter

  She picked up the sheets and began to read in a voice that betrayed no emotion and yet provided the perfect accompaniment to the crackling of the logs in the fireplace and the shrieking of the wind outside. As she progressed with the tale, however, her voice gained a deeper, darker edge with rapid alterations in the registry of delivery. It mixed with the sound of rainwater gurgling in the drainpipes so that, by the time Rebecca finished reading, it seemed that we listened to a lament for the dead or a funeral rite. To this day, I shudder to think of it.

  Dear Becky

  On Friday night Dad was invited to dinner with people who are part of the literary festival. I had some stuff to do beforehand, so I promised to join him half an hour later. We are staying at a quaint place called the Merrijig Inn by the Moyne River. It’s old and a bit run down but comfortable and it has heaps of atmosphere—you know the kind of place where crusty fishermen crashed for the night before going out to sea the next morning. Dad estimated that it’d take me about ten minutes to walk from the inn to the house where the dinner was on Regent Street, across the other side of town.

  It was dark by the time I left. Port Fairy is a pretty town, with wide tree-lined streets and cute stone cottages tucked away in well-tended gardens. The thought of walking through the empty streets on my own didn’t faze me at all. The guy at the reception desk asked if I’d be all right. I told him I was fine. The sky was clear, and a bitter wind prickled my skin. The air smelled of fresh brine and wood smoke, and there was a constant boom of surf coming from the back beach. It sounded like cannon fire. I stuck my hands in my pockets, hunkered down in my coat, and set off at a trot, virtually hopping from one distant streetlight to the next.

  When I reached the centre of town, where all the shops are, I decided it would be quicker to cut through the churchyard at St. John’s rather than walk the long way round to Regent Street. I know, famous last words. But it was so lovely and peaceful, and I felt so good and safe walking under the bright stars that I really didn’t think anything of it.

  I was standing on the nature strip, about to cross the narrow street and enter the churchyard, when I noticed something by the bluestone gate.

  At first I thought it was a white balloon, hovering above the ground at about the height of a small child. Then I realised that what I took to be the light shining off white latex was, in fact, a face.

  A boy’s face.

  I was startled at first and then intrigued.

  He was incredibly pale and rigid as a statue. I was thinking a kid that young shouldn’t be out on his own at this time of night, when I noticed his clothes. He wore an ill-fitting, old-fashioned jacket; heavy three-quarter length pants tucked in thick socks; and scuffed boots that were too big for him. His hair was dirty blond and messy.

  Even as I stared at him, I could tell he was no ordinary boy. He was too still and vivid for that, as though he was some kind of high-fidelity projection put on freeze-frame. He even juddered a little at the edges, as though someone had paused a video. I was about to say Hello to him when he turned and not so much as walked but glided very rapidly behind the gatepost into the churchyard.

  “Hey, don’t go in there,” I called. “It’s dark.” I ran after him, but he was nowhere in sight. He completely vanished. A quick search yielded nothing.

  I didn’t tell Dad. Next morning, straight after breakfast at eight thirty, I ran across town to the church, and there was the boy, waiting. In cold streaming sunlight that fell in dapples through the tree canopy, dressed in the same clothes, and standing at exactly the same spot, as if he’d been there all night.

  The street was deserted; the houses closed up. I stood on the wet nature strip and studied his bloodless face. There was no indication that he saw me. The pale blue eyes seemed impossibly remote, as if he saw beyond this world into an altogether different plane. After a minute, in repetition of the previous night, he pivoted on the spot and disappeared behind the gatepost. Only this time, in daylight, I noticed something peculiar about the way he moved. It was as if he were a figure on a cuckoo clock, being shunted out on the axis of a mechanical arm and then whipped back again. It was alarming and frightening, too, because it robbed him of any humanity.

  I searched the church grounds for a long time. There was nothing to find and, on the wide-open lawn, no place for him to hide. The church was locked so I couldn’t make enquiries. A man stood smoking under a verandah across the street, but he didn’t look like he’d welcome queries about peculiar children.

  The important thing is, Becky, I wasn’t afraid. Just puzzled. The poor thing looked so sad and lonely, and I wanted to help. I was convinced he was trapped on that spot for some reason, repeating the same action over and over again. For all eternity. Who knew how long he’d been there?

  It was up to me to break the spell and free him.

  At ten o’ clock I went to a nearby bookshop and spoke to a woman with a black ponytail and beautiful silvery eyes. Her name was Jo. She was understandably perplexed by the story and said that, as far as she knew, no one had seen anything of that description in the churchyard. All the same, she picked a history of Port Fairy from a nearby bookshelf and leafed through it.

  “Here,” she said after consulting several dusty books, “listen to this . . . ”

  It turns out George O’Dowd, a fisherman, saw the boy by the gate in 1876. Marilyn McNally made the next sighting in 1916. The final recorded sighting was in 1946. The witness was Tony Wright, a war veteran who lived behind the church in Barclay Street. In all cases, Jo read from the book, the witnesses reported that the boy ducked into the churchyard and vanished.

  I asked Jo if there were any theories about who the boy might be. She read from the book.

  “Many believed the ghostly boy was Davey Adair, a nine-year-old orphan who did odd jobs around town in the early 1860s. It was a severe winter. One night the boy sought shelter inside St. John’s church. A heartless caretaker turned him out. Next morning, Davey was found frozen solid beside the Barclay Street gate. In death he received what was denied him in life. His young body was buried in consecrated ground just inside the gate.”

  “Here, look,” Jo said and pointed at an ink drawing on one page.

  At one stage the faithful were buried in St. John’s churchyard. What is now a nice green lawn was once filled with tombstones, leaning every which way.

  “What happened to the graves?” I asked Jo.

  She shrugged. “The bodies were interred and moved to the Port Fairy Cemetery on the other side of the highway.”

  “Davey too?”

  “Probably.”

  Despite the terrible story, I was thrilled to have found this much information about the boy. Now that I knew his name, I could help him.

  “And I’m only the fourth person to see him,” I said, trying not to sound too thrilled.

  “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Jo mumbled, her eyes still on the book. “They’re only the sightings that were reported. There could be others that weren’t.”

  Good point. “Well, thanks,” I said, turning to leave.

  “Not so fast,” she said, grabbing my arm. “The book says that strange things happened to the people who saw the boy. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  “What strange things?”

  She shrugged again. “Don’t know. It just says, ‘Strange and peculiar occurrences befell the unfortunates who witnessed the apparition.’ Please be careful.”

  “You believe me, then?” I said to her with a smile.

  “Don’t see why you’d make up a story like this.” She was a very practical woman, and I liked her a lot.

  That evening Dad had to attend yet another one of those endless dinners people are obliged to go to when appearing at literary events. This one was at the pub on Sackville Street, round the corner from St. John’s church.

  It was a bleak night, with the promise of rain. Dad and I were about to step into the warmth of the pub when I said, “Dad, can you give me a minute? I want
to check on something,” and before he answered I ran the few metres to Barclay Street and up to the church gates.

  Davey Adair was waiting for me in his usual spot, as unnervingly still as ever. In the wan electric light that filtered through the thick canopy of trees, he seemed to be made of crackling frost.

  I kneeled on the grass and stretched out my hands.

  “Davey Adair,” I said in my best voice. “My name is Alice. I’m your friend. Please let me help you, if I can.”

  There was no response or even a flicker of awareness. Except that the juddering round his figure intensified. Then again he pivoted on the spot like a mechanical toy on a spring and merged with the greater darkness behind the gate.

  Disappointed, I ran back to Dad. I was at the corner of Barclay Street when I stopped and, for some reason, looked back at the church. Davey Adair’s shiny moon-like face poked out and studied me from behind the bluestone wall.

  “Good,” I thought. “I got through to you.”

  When I reached my ever-patient father at the pub door, Davey stood at the corner of Barclay and Bank Streets, staring at me. Even though I knew he didn’t mean any harm, it was a bit unnerving. His pupils looked as if they’d been painted on his eyelids.

  “Who’s the boy?” Dad asked.

  “Oh, no one,” I said, pushing him inside.

  He gave me a knowing look and left it at that.

  That was four hours ago, dear Becky, my bestest friend in the world. I’m now in my room at the Merrijig Inn, writing this letter to you. Dad is asleep next door. The rain is pelting down, and the gale coming off the ocean is enough to put the wind up Captain Ahab.

  Becky, something has been scratching at the window for a half hour. I daren’t look. The room is upstairs on the first floor. It can only be a branch from the big tree outside. Even so, I’m spooked.

  Davey was on the street when Dad and I returned to the inn tonight. I caught sight of him as we came in the front door, and then I saw him again from my window. He stood under the streetlight on the opposite pavement, looking up at me. That little head tilted up. The pale throat exposed. The mouth moving as if forming words. But of course from this distance, I couldn’t hear a thing. I must admit the idea that he followed me is freaking me out a bit. And then getting a glimpse of that mouth contorting in that awful way, as if he’s forgotten how to perform perfectly normal bodily functions, gave me the serious heebie-jeebies.

  I’m sitting at the small desk, wondering what I got myself into.

  Becky, when the mouth opened, it was just a black hole that went all the way to the centre of his being. Poor thing. It started to rain, and the water fell into his open mouth as if it were a well or a bucket or something. He didn’t seem to notice.

  There’s that horrible scritch-scratch of busy little hands at the window again.

  Scritch-scratch; scritch-scratch.

  It sounds like broken nails being dragged against glass. And it’s driving me insane.

  When I look up from the letter, I see over the well-made bed to the window with the pretty lace curtains gathered at the side. It’s not a large room. It’s quite small actually, built into the attic, with a dormer window, which is why I can clearly see Davey Adair floating, yes, floating one floor up, outside the rain-streaked glass. The hair is plastered to his forehead, and one hand reaches out to press the window. He reminds me of an abandoned puppy, begging to be let in.

  All the same, it’s a terrifying sight. And yet, for some reason, I feel so terribly sorry for him. My heart goes out to him. It almost breaks at the pitiful sight of him out there, alone and abandoned. He looks how I felt after Mum died. Shattered and lost and bewildered and in need of a friend.

  Maybe that’s what he wants, Becky. A friend.

  If only his eyes weren’t so lifeless. I’d fling open the window and say Come in, Davey, come in. I’ll take care of you. You can stay with me forever.

  His mouth moved again. I think he’s trying to tell me something. If only it wasn’t so black, like the coal chute at my grandmother’s place.

  All right. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve been sitting here for the longest time, trying to decide what to do. Now I know.

  Hold on, Becky. I’m going to lay down the pen and open the window. I can’t stand that scratching any more. And I must hear what he has to say. Hopefully he’ll stop making that keening noise once he’s out of the cold and in this warm, bright room.

  I’m putting down the pen now, Becky. Wait for me, won’t you? I’ll be back in a tick . . .

  Rebecca set the letter on the coffee table and looked up. There were tears in her eyes.

  “She never came back,” she said in a choked voice.

  Ross leaned forward and said, “That’s it?”

  “Yes. She didn’t finish the letter.”

  “But what happened to Alice?” Ross pursued.

  Rebecca stared at the wall behind him and shrugged. “She disappeared. Hasn’t been seen since. Next morning her father alerted the police. There was an investigation. Nothing was found, and, of course, everyone dismissed the letter as pure fantasy.

  “The only sighting—if you can call it that—came late the next morning. A parishioner on the way to church found a pair of shoes embedded in the ground just inside St. John’s gates. Turned out they belonged to Alice. Poor Barnaby Kendall returned to Melbourne with his daughter’s suitcase and a pair of crushed, muddied shoes. He died not long after, believing he’d taken his daughter to her death.”

  “What do you mean ‘embedded’?” Ross asked. For a sensitive man, he could be callous at times.

  Rebecca sipped her cocoa before answering. “Just that. The shoes were half buried in the soil, toes first, like someone was trying to bury them.”

  Ross whistled between his teeth and said, “Or like something dragged her under the ground, and the shoes came off with the force of the impact.”

  Rebecca grimaced. “Don’t. That’s too horrible.”

  “There was no evidence in her room at the inn?” Ross relentlessly pursued his line of enquiry.

  Rebecca shook her head. “The window to Alice’s room was open. The rain got in and made a mess of the place. This letter was almost soaked through. The police said she’d probably run away with the boy her father had seen, but I don’t know . . . She wasn’t the sort. Studied hard, got top grades in just about everything. You know the type.”

  “You don’t seriously think a ghost called Davey Adair took her,” I put in.

  “Well, what do you think happened then?” Ross called out. His eyes lit up as if he was about to punch me for daring to challenge what everyone appeared to accept without question.

  “I don’t know what happened, Ross,” I replied. “I just don’t believe she’s being held captive by a bugaboo. And now,” I said, gathering my cup and saucer, “if you don’t mind, I’m off to bed. It’s late.”

  Geoff, who had been quiet since Rebecca finished reading the letter, looked up from contemplating the embers in the fireplace. “I reckon we should all go to Port Fairy and see if the ghost is still there,” he said.

  “Well, if you do,” I put in, “you go without me.”

  “I always wanted to,” Rebecca said in a distant voice. “I was just too scared to go on my own.”

  Geoff saw his chance and grabbed it. “What self-respecting goth would turn down the opportunity to see a ghost? Are we going or what, team?”

  “Count me in,” Ross said. “I’ll drive us up there tomorrow. It’ll take about three hours in this crap weather.”

  “You don’t drive,” Geoff reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah,” Ross said. “You can drive then.”

  “I don’t have a car,” Geoff added.

  “I’ll drive,” Rebecca offered in a frustrated voice.

  And because we are and have always been a band of four, I was compelled to say that I too would go with them to a distant seaside town whose wide avenues and well-preserved cottages have seen more of life
’s beauty and savagery than most places in Australia.

  Maybe the boy by the gate claimed his last victim in Alice Kendall. Maybe he still waits.

  “If nothing else,” I said to Rebecca, “you might find out what happened to your friend.”

  At that moment the window casement flew open with a crash, and all the wild restlessness and ruin of the night rushed into the civilized room. A gust of wind picked up the letter on the coffee table and hurled it in the fireplace. Everyone leaped to their feet with cries of shock and surprise.

  “No, no.” Rebecca jumped at the fire to save her friend’s memento.

  It was useless. The letter was reduced to ash in a matter of seconds. Feathery blackened pieces of paper floated up the chimney and disappeared. Geoff put an arm round her shoulders and pulled her away from the gutting flames.

  It fell to me to close the window and return order to the room. I fought past the crazily flapping curtains and extended both arms into the feral night to close the wooden shutters. As I did so, ice-cold fingers locked round my wrists like shackles and long nails scraped my skin. Startled, I let out a yelp and leaped back. In doing so, I caught a glimpse of the storm-tossed garden and the thing Rebecca’s letter had summoned to this house.

  “What is it?” Ross cried. He pushed me aside and quickly closed the window.

  Calm returned to the room as though a switch had been thrown. The curtains settled in their usual place against the wall. Rain glistened on furniture. A palm frond trembled in a corner. Rebecca wept against Geoff’s shoulder, and Ross stood over me, asking why I had screamed.

  But I couldn’t tell him. For the life of me I couldn’t . . .

  Nor could I stop hearing that awful scritch-scratching at the window.