“Don’t strain yourself, dear,” Carole replied, and was glad to get a laugh rather than a grunt in reply.
“No, really,” he said. “You’re right. It would be too tacky to use old Hugh’s death just to sell books. I see that. I just got carried away with the thought of fortune and glory—you know what we writers are like?”
Carole nodded, but didn’t speak, as she could see he wanted to continue.
“But I’m right about there being something else going on in that house,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones. And whether it’s tied to Granddad or not, there’s a story in it. You know me well enough to know that I’ve got a good nose for these things.”
She nodded again, remembering celebrations of previous scoops, front-page stories with John’s byline, days when he’d been the golden boy of Fleet Street—days that had become few and far between in recent times. The arguments had become more frequent around the time that the stories started drying up. If John had got his teeth into something here in this godforsaken wasteland, then she fully intended to let him have his head—for the benefit of both his sanity and her own.
She gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Go get them, tiger. I’ve got your back.”
That got her another smile, and suddenly this trip didn’t seem so bad after all.
^
They walked along the driveway for another ten minutes, picking their way around the larger puddles and once having to skirt around the edge of the bog itself to get past a dip in the road that had filled with mucky, almost black water. There was no sign of the fog thinning—in fact it got thicker, if anything, and colder against her hands and cheeks. She chose not to complain—John’s mood had improved considerably since breakfast, and despite the fog it felt good to be out walking in open ground and away from the house, if only for a short while.
They had been walking in deep silence, like being enveloped in damp candy floss, so they both got a surprise when a loud splash came from their left, from deeper in the bog beyond the bounds of the driveway.
“What the hell was that?” Carole said. She immediately thought of the buried giant again, waggling a buried finger and causing a commotion in the boggy pools. She berated herself for an overactive imagination, and once again gripped John’s arm tighter as they stopped and looked towards where they thought the noise had originated.
There was another splash—on the right side of the path this time, and nearer than the last.
“If anything starts howling, leg it,” John said, but his attempt at humor fell flat when there was yet another splash. It sounded like it was just at the edge of the fog, barely out of sight.
“There’s something out there,” Carole said, whispering, in case she gave away their position.
“I’m pretty sure it’s nothing that can harm us,” John said, but there was a tremor in his voice that belied his bravado. “There are no big predators around here. Just foxes and stoats—stuff like that.”
Another loud splash came as he stopped talking, like an exclamation point punctuating his words.
“That’s a bloody big fox,” Carole said.
They were still trying to peer into the fog when they heard a moan, like the wailing of wind through a drafty window.
“Let’s head back,” John said, and started to pull her away.
They retreated at speed down the drive. Carole looked back, but saw only shifting fog. John was almost dragging her now, their walk having turned into a jog. They didn’t bother avoiding the puddles, splashing their way through even the deeper ones. Carole felt chill water soak around her ankles and seep into her shoes, making each step squelch wetly. It didn’t slow her.
She only looked back once more, as the house loomed into view ahead of them.
Later, as they reached the front door of the house and castigated themselves for getting spooked, she couldn’t be sure what she’d seen. It had been little more than a darker smudge in the gray, but it reminded her once again of the hunched figure she’d watched from the window the day before as it trudged disconsolately through the bog.
= 10 '
McKinnon, the butler, was already at the door, waiting to take their coats as they squelched in off the moor. They immediately kicked off their shoes and tugged off the heavy socks that were completely saturated with water. The butler took the socks and deposited them in a bucket beside the door.
“I’ll have them back to you within the hour,” he said. “If you need any dry pairs, just ask. We keep spares for just this eventuality.”
The old man looked ready to deal with any eventuality whatsoever, and was calm and unflustered as ever.
“Does anyone else live around here?” John asked as he handed over his jacket.
“No, sir,” the butler replied. “Not for almost fifteen miles.”
“We heard someone, out on the moor,” John said. “Could it have been one of the staff?”
“No, sir,” the man said again. “Everybody is accounted for. Perhaps it was a hunter—they sometimes cross the grounds going after a stag.”
John saw signs of evasion in the man now, but didn’t press it.
Not yet. I still need more background, and it has to come from Blacklaw.
The butler turned away to hang up the coats.
“The Maister asked me to leave some tapes in the library for you, sir,” he said. “I believe he informed you of this?”
John nodded, the strange splashing on the moor immediately forgotten at the prospect of exactly the kind of background he’d just been considering.
“I’m going to take a bath and try to get my feet warm,” Carole said. “You go and have a rummage through the tapes—they might be just what you are looking for. You can tell me all about it later.”
John stopped the butler just as he was walking away.
“Will Mr. Blacklaw be joining us for lunch?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. He was rather tired after breakfast and will not be down until this evening. I will bring a plate of bread, cheese and cold meats to the front room if you wish something?”
John looked at Carole and she nodded.
“I’ll be back down in half an hour,” she said. “Try to leave some for me.”
She gave him a smile that reminded him that the day had been getting better by the moment before their walk, and went upstairs.
John ignored the prospect of food and headed straight for the library.
^
The box on the library floor looked as though the butler would have needed help to carry it. It was a two-foot cube, and it was filled with tapes for the small reel to reel player that sat nearby on the small coffee table beside the fireside chair.
John sat down and studied the portable player for several minutes. It had belonged to old Hugh, and was the first thing of his grandfather’s that John had knowingly touched. It was also strangely beautiful, in a retro kind of way, in a lurid red ’60s plastic with chrome fittings. He ran his hands over the case, studied the microphone—it was polished and worn by use—and made sure that the mechanism was in working order. It ran on 12-volt batteries, and someone—again, McKinnon at a guess—had been thoughtful enough to have them fitted and ready for use.
A quick look at the tapes showed them to be filed in chronological order, with the more recent on top of the box. John ignored the very last one—he’d get to that in his own good time—and chose one that was dated January, 1968. It took some fiddling and cursing to get the tape leaders in place on the tiny player, but once he got the hang of it, John was able to wind the tape onto the spools, and eventually mastered the technique of getting the player functioning.
Seconds later, Hugh Fraser spoke to him from the great beyond.
^
“I believe I have found a book that will suit my purposes nicely.”
John was almost surprised to find that his granddad had a soft but definite Scottish accent. John, and his own parents before him, had grown up in the south of England, but
it seemed that Hugh had not strayed too far from his own Scottish roots, despite having left his homeland for “fortune and glory” straight after university.
“When I went in I was still not sure exactly what I was looking for. I had a giggle when I misread ‘Esoterica’ as ‘Erotica’ and nearly walked past the section, but the book caught my eye immediately despite being in rather poor condition compared to its brothers and sisters on the shelves.
“The chap in the shop tried to tell me it was worth two pounds but I haggled him down to nineteen shillings and sixpence, and will consider it well worth the price should it help me in my goal.
“I had a quick flick through it in the shop, and a closer look just before making this recording. It contains several splendid possible visuals, any one of which will look simply stunning on television sets and should provide the appropriate thrills for our intended audience. The book is also filled with the most impenetrable nonsense about antimony, pelicans, red serpents and ‘quintessential mercury’—whatever that might be. It purports to be some kind of step-by-step guide for achieving immortality—but I believe I know a more reliable method. Television appearances on the BBC at peak times might not guarantee the survival of the body, but will at least give me peace in the knowledge that our names will live on in the public’s memories long after we have passed.
“But the immortality guff is all of little to no import and can be safely ignored. What may prove useful, though, are certain rituals and incantations in the book that I feel could be readily employed to lend verisimilitude to our little charade, especially if we get the setting and tone just right. The people of Britain could do with a good fright on a Saturday after their supper.
“I cannot wait to tell Blackie of my plan—I really do believe this will be the thing to get us back up to where we belong.”
^
At this point the tape hissed, and John thought he might have chosen one that contained merely a fragment, but after ten seconds or so Hugh’s voice continued—although this time he sounded distinctly less happy.
“This blasted book has got under my skin. It’s damned confounding, full of riddles and double meanings, but I also get the sense that there’s something deeper going on here, some meaning that I might fathom if I could only delve deeply enough. I have talked to the producers in the BBC and while they are not completely sold on the idea of my documentary series, they have expressed an interest in a one-off, and are willing to provide a small crew should I find an appropriate location. That should not be a problem—when Blackie showed me round his new place in Scotland, there was a huge, dark cellar—just the place for spooky goings-on. I can see it all in my mind’s eye already—the chanting, the dancing, and the chalked magic circles on the floor—all those fans of old Wheatley will lap it up. All I have to do is persuade Blackie—I’m sure he will see that this is the only way forward for us.”
The tape hissed—and kept on hissing this time.
John was about to fast-forward to check for more when Carole arrived and demanded that they eat something. He left the tapes in the library and joined her in the dining room for lunch.
= 11 '
McKinnon had laid out enough food to feed a small army. There was cold pressed ham, pork pies, handmade sausage rolls, and bread and cheese aplenty.
Carole was soon feeling pleasantly full and relaxed, especially as he’d provided some strong local ale to accompany the buffet. Over John’s shoulder she had a clear view of the bay window and the fog-bound moor beyond, but her long, luxurious soak in the bath upstairs had also washed away her foreboding about the splashing sounds on the moor. She felt slightly embarrassed now to think of their rushed flight along the gravel drive. John hadn’t brought it up again, so she put it to the back of her mind and concentrated on what he was telling her.
John had kept up a constant chat about his granddad—the story now had complete hold of him. “Black magic, ancient books, rituals, and Black and Tan at the center of it all—he was right. It would have made a great bit of television back in the day—never mind back in the day, it would make a great bit of television now. I wonder if the old man knows what happened to the film. Imagine if it could be found. That wouldn’t just be a big story—it would be bloody huge.”
She’d seen him like this before on other stories, but he’d never seemed so energized—she presumed it must be the family connection.
“So ask him,” Carole replied.
“I intend to. And we need to have a look down that cellar,” he said.
“Why? You’ve seen the photos. And I doubt there’s much to see now, all these years later. You heard Blacklaw—he keeps junk down there.”
“Kept,” John said. “He kept junk down there, before old Hugh died. Who knows what’s down there now? If there’s a chance that there’s anything left from the night it all happened, I have to see it.”
“Well then, let’s do it now. Old McKinnon should be able to point the way. And he’s bound to have a key if the door is locked.”
As if by magic, the butler appeared in the doorway.
“I could not help but overhear,” he said. “The cellar has indeed not been used since the night in question—it did not seem quite proper. The Maister told me to expect that you would ask about it. Anytime you would like to go down below, the door is the heavy wooden one. It’s second on the right at the end of the hall, and I have left it unlocked.”
With that, he cleared up the remains of their lunch and left, showing no sign of wanting to accompany them—in fact, he seemed to be in rather a hurry to be gone. Carole felt the first shiver of apprehension.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.
John seemed to have no such qualms.
“So what’s it to be,” he said, smiling. “Shall we investigate the splashing thing out on the moor again? Or shall we go down into a dank old cellar that hasn’t been used since someone died down there? Don’t say I never show you a good time.”
^
It was colder out in the hallway, and Carole fetched her outdoor jacket from the rack. It was slightly damp, but kept the worst of the chill breeze out as they headed for the cellar door. It opened after John put his weight into pulling on it, creaking loudly and rasping, wood against stone floor to show a steep set of stone stairs heading down into blackness.
John found a light switch on the wall just inside the doorway and clicked it on. A single bulb gave out barely enough illumination to show them that the steps went down for some distance. The air smelled damp and musty, and a new breeze came up from the darkness and sent a cold whisper past them into the hall at their backs.
“It must be filthy down there. I just had a bath,” Carole said. “And this skirt isn’t really meant for exploring dank cellars.”
John took her hand.
“It can’t be far down,” he said. “Just try not to touch the walls. We’ll be fine. I just want a quick look.”
They went down, gingerly at first, then more confidently as it was obvious there was light coming up from below. After twenty steps they reached bottom and looked out over a long vaulted cellar.
If Blacklaw ever had junk stored in the place, it hadn’t been for a long time. The room was empty and quiet. Manacles and chains hung from the walls and, directly beneath a fluorescent light strip, the floor was painted. The fading remains of concentric circles ran around a five-pointed star that was itself inlaid with strange squiggles and symbols that Carole did not recognize and had no desire to see any closer.
John seemed to sense her reluctance. He gripped her hand tighter and stepped forward into the room. It was even colder down here, a damp chill that threatened to seep into Carole’s bones and stay for a while. Water dripped somewhere in the shadows and a smell of mold and decay hung heavy in the air.
“There’s nothing to see here,” she whispered, and was dismayed as the vault took up her voice and sent it back to her as a fading echo.
“I just want a quick look around,�
� John said again, and led her over to the painted circles on the floor. Carole tried not to think about John’s granddad, lying there dead and smiling. She still hadn’t seen the photographs—but that did not mean she could not imagine the scene. In fact, she could imagine it all too well.
The ritualized markings might have been white at one time, but they were now faded and gray, although they had not been scuffed or defaced in any way. As they got closer to them, Carole felt the chill bite deeper at her ankles, as if she’d just stepped into another puddle, although the floor was dry and dusty when she looked down.
“I don’t like this,” she said, and once more the echo took her voice and carried it around the vault. And this time it got a reply, a skittering in a dark corner, as if something had taken fright at the sound and was scurrying for cover.
“Come on, John. They’ve got rats. You know how I feel about rodents.”
John looked like he might argue, but the skittering came again, louder this time, and Carole was in no mood to wait for it to come closer. She let go of John’s hand and headed for the stairs.
Before she was halfway across the cellar floor, a moan—high and whining and eerily reminiscent of the one they’d heard on the moor—filled the room, echoing and ringing until it seemed that a chorus of voices was raised in unison. The neon light flickered and threatened to go out completely. It got colder fast, Carole’s breath condensing in the air.
The shadows shifted in the far corner, the source of the rustling noises. John looked in that direction, then back at Carole. The moaning became a pounding, like a soft drumbeat. The neon light pulsed in time, and as the moaning finally faded, the skittering in the corner once again could be heard, even louder now, much closer.
Finally John had had enough too. He joined Carole in making for the exit. She only just beat him to the stairs, and a minute later they were back up in the hallway, firmly closing the cellar door behind them.
^
“It’s just the wind,” McKinnon said several minutes later as he fetched them a pot of strong coffee. “Whatever else could it be?”
The House on the Moor Page 5