by Adam Nevill
‘Oh, yes. My publisher has accepted the manuscript. I sent an outline and the first few chapters to my agent some time ago. That’s how it works, you see. Not that either of you would know anything about how this business operates. And that thing that occupies the top floor of the Tor wouldn’t have a clue either, because he’s been out of the loop for some time. But my publisher has offered me a new agreement for Yellow Teeth. They’re very enthusiastic about this book too, and more so than the book I abandoned. In fact, they hope to publish Yellow Teeth at Halloween, this year.’
Wendy managed to swallow enough of her bile to speak, albeit in a strained whisper. ‘How much are they offering?’
I told them.
‘Dear God,’ Wendy said. ‘As much as that?’ She glanced at the manuscript on the table. ‘For . . . this?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘For that very novel, right there. Yellow Teeth. The manuscript has been accepted for publication.’
‘I see,’ said Wendy, the blossom of blood draining from her face. ‘And you took it upon yourself to proceed without discussing this with us.’
‘I did. It’s my book and my career.’
‘Not exactly,’ Nat offered. ‘We have told you that you mustn’t think about your writing in those terms any more. You are to facilitate the reintroduction of a significant set of ideas into the world.’
‘Nat!’ Wendy barked. ‘If you don’t mind!’
‘I’m sorry, Wendy.’
Wendy turned again to me. ‘This money . . . The advance, when will it be payable?’
‘The signature and delivery portion within four weeks.’
That made Wendy grin, though spitefully.
Natalie closed her eyes and clenched her hands together as if she were thanking whoever had answered her prayers. ‘Wendy,’ she muttered in a pathetic voice, ‘we can get the roof done . . . Some clothes—’
‘It belongs to the API, Natalie, you know that.’ Wendy then raised her chin so that she could peer down her nose at me. ‘You will make the transfer without any delays.’
I nodded. It had taken a good long while for me to accept that the advance for the new book was gone, and all future proceeds too, if there were any. All would be paid to these creatures that stood before me. They were stealing from me. But by giving them the money, I knew that I was prolonging my life, and any quality of life that I could ever hope to enjoy.
I wanted to sleep again. And by this time in our association I would have done anything, paid anything at all, to have rid myself of Wendy, Natalie, and whatever it was that came and went on the top floor of Hunter’s Tor Hall, this Master that had imprisoned us and directed the killing of Ewan.
I had just enough money saved to support myself for another eighteen months, by which time I would need to secure another book deal, for the book that would follow Yellow Teeth.
I stood up. ‘And that concludes our collaboration. I have your bank details and you will receive the monies agreed in due course. I’ll even send you the royalty statements every six months so that you can see if the book has sold, and if the work has accrued any future income. You can even file the statements in the basement of the Hall, along with all of your other records.’
I showed them the palms of my hands. ‘I have done what you asked, so I’ll have to ask you two ladies to leave now. As we also agreed, you will never contact me again. Now, I have work to do. A lot of publicity to prepare for, in order to promote our new book. You see, it’s a requirement for authors these days.’
Natalie sat forward on her chair. ‘Leave? But we can’t. Wendy, the other thing, are you going to mention it?’
Wendy nodded. ‘Indeed. I was waiting for a suitable pause in our associate’s version of events before I made a start.’
‘Start?’
‘If you please,’ Wendy added, and even raised one calloused hand to silence me. ‘And would you sit down. I think it is better if you hear this sitting down.’
‘I’ll stand.’
‘As you wish. But we have been in receipt of a new directive, Sebastian.’ She and Natalie both chortled at that. ‘And this has come right from the top. The very top of our organization. And you know all about the top, don’t you, Seb? The top floor and the highest executive level of our organization, which you were fortunate enough to have visited some six months ago. But it has come to our attention, and this is of the utmost urgency and importance, and one that will be treated with the strictest discretion by you, that a new opportunity has been put upon the table.’
‘Forget it. We’re done. We had an agreement. I wrote the book and that’s all—’
‘Alas, it is not for you, nor for me and my colleague, to make nor change the rules.’
‘You agreed—’
‘Circumstances can change. Agreements alter accordingly.’
‘No!’
‘Our leader’s keen interest in returning to public life continues.’
It was time for me to shake my hands in the air. ‘He’s dead. Gone. You know that. No matter what you believe, Hazzard is no more. No one is interested in him, or his ideas.’ I dropped my voice. ‘I mean . . . look where it leads. Any attempt to revive the API is futile, and you know it.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Natalie.
Wendy grinned with the satisfaction of being back in the ascendant. ‘He will never retire. He can’t, for one thing. But he is very keenly aware of your connections and your ability to act as a broker on our behalf. He is also keen to begin a more direct collaboration with a writer, who will—’
‘Forget it!’
‘Who will take on certain editorial duties organizing narrated material. But the final words will be his and his alone.’
‘No!’
‘Be seated!’ Wendy roared. Natalie jumped. ‘Do you not know to whom it is that you speak? Do you still doubt the reach of the organization that we represent?’
When Wendy had finished shouting at me, her body continued to tremble and she made several gasping noises from the back of her throat. Natalie even placed her hand upon her colleague’s shoulder, but Wendy shrugged it away with irritation. ‘I think it’s time for a story. I think a story is the best medium with which to express our new intent, and with which to seal an agreement for a new work.’
At that point, I remember holding onto the cabinet below the window, as I had begun to unconsciously back away, towards the balcony door.
This moving of the goalposts was not completely unexpected, despite every assurance that I had extracted from them during the previous six months. I had done all that I could to make them swear that their interest in me would never continue beyond one book, providing the book produced a sum commensurate with their expectations. They were broke and I had already exceeded their expectations.
If the book had not been commissioned, I would have given them my savings, because I had no choice. During the early hours of dawn, one morning half a year gone, in a ground-floor room at the Tor where they found me unconscious, they had also appeared to understand that a person could only endure so much of their master and his legacy. One night at the Tor had been sufficient for me. They must have seen that it would be unwise to push me any further in that direction. But the desperate care nothing but for their own desperation.
Characteristically, Wendy smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. ‘There is a passage, a stream, that you are aware of, Sebastian. A place through which he passes. And the very place in which our former members still gather, and where we too will make our own search, one day.’
‘Oh, yes, yes!’ Natalie suddenly exclaimed and clutched at Wendy’s hand as if this was something to look forward to.
Wendy relaxed into her seat. ‘A place where the search for the higher spheres, for the celestial light of the paradise belt, continues. And there, our mentor and guide, our leader, has drawn unto himself a collection of . . . how shall I put this? A host of malignant forms. And even in their unfortunate and most frightful condition . . .’
‘Our leader has considerable influence over how their activities are guided. Despite your disingenuous nature, I know that you have some awareness of what it is that I speak of. And so I would ask you to keep in mind the earthly name of one of the most unfortunate souls who has an associate membership in our current organization. His common name carried some notoriety for over a century, and the accounts of Thin Len’s crimes are lurid. He was an idiot, a sadistic imbecile, and a ruthless killer of children in his earthbound days.’
‘There is that woman too,’ Natalie said, shaking with excitement. ‘We mustn’t forget her, Wendy. The woman once known as the Grey Lady in some local parts, but Choker Lotty by the press before she was hanged. She was a poisoner whose rage still burns as white as the vapours that she was said to have evoked from her own sister’s belly . . .’
‘Quite, Natalie. Her sister was carrying the child of Lotty’s lover.’
Wendy had relaxed and momentarily closed her eyes after an unbecoming flutter that made her appear even more unstable than she was. ‘Your old friend Ewan has met them both since he took his place amongst the alumni at the Tor. And we know that you have encountered at least one of them, in some distant, half-remembered form, and right here too.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Natalie said. ‘I can confirm that Thin Len has passed by here. He knows how to find this place.’
‘Exactly. The image was shared, was it not, Natalie? The two images were put together, here and over there.’
‘The image was shared. We deplore such tactics, but in some special cases we’re left with little choice. And alas, this connection has already been made.’
‘It is said their passage is marked by a gliding, is it not, Natalie?’
‘The gliding of the double it is called. And that which manifests, becomes corporeal, yes, yes, yes.’
‘But for us to remove this bargaining asset from our ongoing relationship, we would require from you another work. One far more ambitious than the last.’
Wendy looked at the manuscript on the table and curled her lip with disapproval. ‘A work that will see you find your utmost potential as a vehicle, a conduit, who will faithfully transcribe the experiences of our patron, and the wonders that he continues to behold. But, our dear Seb, you will not be the author, but more of a secretary, an assistant this time. It is time for a far more substantial and meaningful vision to see print than one that you could ever produce on your own.’
Natalie nodded rapidly. ‘Quite. Quite. Yes. And there is a residential component, is there not, Wendy?’
‘There certainly is. We would not be remiss in calling this a writer’s residency at our beloved Tor.’
At this point I came to be sitting on the floor with my back against the sliding doors before the balcony. But I did manage to say, ‘Never.’
‘I’m afraid the wheels are in motion, Seb. You are to begin immediately.’
‘I can’t. Not there. Not again. Who . . . who could stand it?’
They meant for me to record Hazzard’s strange experiences, but in that place. To actually live at Hunter’s Tor and to endure him until my mind went out like the minds of those others who, even now, must still be circling the rose garden each night, while seeking the light that will never again shine upon their wretched faces.
‘Your accommodation during this residency will be the gardener’s cottage. That’s far more suitable. It’s been our home for many years,’ said Natalie. ‘We’ve been very happy there, haven’t we, Wendy?’
‘We’ve managed, Natalie. We’ve coped. Though I believe that our time in our leader’s inner circle, on site, is also under review within this little reorganization that we are undergoing. Sometimes the old wood has to make way for new blood. Fresh ideas. New faces. And there’s practicality to consider. If you are going to be working together, it makes perfect sense for you to live near him. An exchange, in effect. An exchange of living space. Though we’ll all be working for the same side, our close presence will not be required quite so much, while you are hard at work on the new book. Our fundraising activities will be far better positioned . . . well, right here.’
‘It is a lovely house,’ Natalie said, and clapped her withered hands like a little girl. ‘We’ve always enjoyed coming here and admired what you’ve done with the place, Seb.’
‘Indeed, Natalie. You could say this house has become a prominent asset to the organization.’
‘Indeed. Yes, yes.’
I finally broke my stupefied silence. I’d commented upon their mental state before, but couldn’t resist repeating myself. ‘You’re mad. You think you can take my home . . . and deposit me out there, in that place?’
‘And we can only hope,’ Wendy said, elatedly, ‘that you will feel compelled to record what will be shared with you, faithfully this time. We can only hope that it does not compromise your artistic integrity.’
‘Agreed,’ said Natalie, beaming. ‘Because you don’t have any fucking choice.’
29
Looking at Myself from Nothing
The psychic stream flows thickly through this place.
Those who have detached and who continue their search rarely bother me while I work. I’m not sure they are even aware of me. But I do see them, and often. Sometimes by day, but mostly at night.
When the sun goes down, I keep to the cottage because when I see them now, I see them more clearly, or they are better formed as my time in their presence lengthens.
I’ll give you an example. Yesterday at dusk as the light dwindled, I came across a woman on the other side of the rose garden. Or, at least, I saw what was left of her between the vines and thorns. She had been wearing a hat with a wide, floppy brim, but her head was bowed as if she were searching for something about her feet, or even trying to locate her feet. I saw part of a lower jaw, the flesh stretched over the bone, the dirty teeth pronounced. I saw something of an arm, too, and one that was as thin as the branches of the plants that she crouched beside.
But I heard her voice clearly, as if she were still alive, and she said to me, ‘It’s not far now.’
She then asked if I had ‘seen Sylvia’, before informing me, ‘She’s not been well, you know.’
After that, the figure was no longer there at all.
Those I come across are trapped in repetitive trivialities. I often hear the same voices repeating the same phrases inside the rose garden where Hazzard’s ashes were scattered by the last handful of his followers, one grey morning in 1984. Or so I have learned from the records in the archive. But there are many here that are best avoided, because they rage blind against the invisible cords that bind them. I cannot endure their antics. I move on from where they thrash in nothingness.
In my sleep, each evening, I follow the sound of the stream and the wet, grey procession until it vanishes. I often find myself trapped before a wall inside the building, the place to which they all scurry in panic or ecstasy.
Sometimes I find myself dreaming that I am far away from the house, but still inside the grounds. I am on all fours, begrimed, and talking to myself as if I have a fever.
Awake, I can never locate the stream. I often hear it, rushing nearby, in various parts of the grounds when I go out to walk. Finding the confines of the study stifling, as I wait each morning for that voice to rise from the unlit, shuttered places that abound inside the building, I go out.
He comes to those who have entered his house in many ways. Sometimes, as I sit still with my eyes closed against the bustling darkness, I await the first image to bloom inside my mind.
There can be nothing for me to write for days, and I kid myself that this intermittent hinderer activity has finally lifted from the dead building and perhaps moved further downstream. Or maybe it has stumbled out of its captivity to enter the light. But it doesn’t work like that, not for them. They seem to have forfeited any right to what they sought so many years ago
. Their frantic scrabbling at the air to get back inside what no longer lies below, dead-eyed upon a bed, is also made in vain.
The Master’s voice, on the rare occasion that I hear it, suggests a fussy and brittle temperament. And sometimes I hear this self-important intonation and, despite the great gulf that divides us, I sense that this presence remains acutely sensitive about its appearance and status, and might be easily offended. I fear that no slight would ever be forgotten. Achieving its will over others is still very important. So I refrain from causing injury.
Hazzard speaks but never manages to complete much of a thought, let alone an actual tale.
He most often adopts the female persona, Diane, and there is just as much mimicry involved in the tone of Diane’s voice as there was in Hazzard’s original masquerade here, on this earthbound side.
But I have seen Hazzard and Diane. I am sure I have, though it can be hard to tell them apart from the others, who hinder and crawl about the floor here, or who suddenly seize themselves upon a ceiling and bay like hunting animals. Many do nothing but stand and stare, as if forgetting why they are here, or even who they once were. And as they forget what they were, I fear they wither. I fear they transform into something baser that is wounded and cornered.
Sightings of Hazzard are as rare as his intermittent communications. Hearing these bursts of his speech is like trying to tune an old radio, with an aerial insufficient to the task of locating transmissions. His narration forms fragments of sentences that seem to be directed at someone else in another time, or even another place, that I partly overhear. But I start typing what I catch, in case it is an experience that is required for our collection.
He has found other ways of communicating with me too. After I have awoken in my chair in the front room – and how I dream so vividly now – I wrap my coat about myself and I stumble to the typewriter. Upon the letterheaded paper that has been supplied, I then type frantically, to catch the impressions of his visions before they vanish from my mind.
Only last week, after I had just finished narrating an experience that left me weak and shaking, I received a sense that something was standing outside the study. It was in the corridor between here and the dining room, where I take my small meals.