Conjure House

by Gary Fry

  What kind of a fucked-up person did that make him?

  And the answer was simple: one created by his dad, the man slumped in the lounge watching crap TV and guzzling lager, while Andy’s mum worked in the kitchen after cooking a large breakfast.

  Nevertheless, Andy realised that neither nature nor nurture was deterministic, that his mental state wasn’t a choice between having been born or made this way. He’d had options in life but had lacked the moral fibre to make more honourable decisions. He was fundamentally selfish, prioritising his work above all other considerations.

  Christ, now he was beginning to sound pompous, like his old friend Anthony…

  Andy sniggered, enjoying the opportunity to think about his childhood pals. They were fine folk and he loved them all dearly. Young Simon had been a decent lad, too, despite having been around only briefly.

  A movement at the window drew Andy’s attention. He glanced that way at once.

  Outside he saw only conifer trees smudged by grease on the glass. After closing his eyes to steady the headache threatening to develop all day, he shook his head, sensing thoughts shift inside that might be dangerous if entertained.

  Stop being ridiculous, he told himself, the same way he had after experiencing that weird vision after arriving yesterday. He was cursed by imagination, despite knowing there was nothing on the planet but dour reality and associated misery.

  He opened his eyes. Looked again at the bedroom window.

  Simon Mallinson, still around seven years old, gazed back at him through the pane.

  Oh, but no, Andy was mistaken. Something about the way a mass of foliage in the back garden had bowed to the pressure of a stiff breeze had simply put Andy in mind of a boy. The impression might have been generated by guilt over leaving his own lads at home. He gazed harder through the window, sobbing at the emptiness he perceived both out in the world and inside himself.

  Then there was only himself and perhaps his only reason for living.

  His art.

  And what he believed was left of his sanity.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Hi, Larry.”

  “Hello, dear boy.”

  “May I come in? I told you I might return.”

  “Certainly, my friend. Why not bring some of your happiness inside?”

  They were playing a game, and both knew it. But as the historian stepped back from the threshold to allow entry to his house, Anthony sustained a thin smile and paced through to the lounge. He stood for a moment, his fingers fidgeting.

  “May I get you a dri–”

  But Anthony had already decided.

  “No thanks. I can’t stay long.” He hesitated to draw breath, and then said, “I’ve come back to ask for more information about…Peter Suman.”

  Larry nodded, running one narrow hand across his balding pate.

  “In that case, you’d better sit down,” he replied, doing so himself in his favoured armchair.

  “Must I?” Anthony replied, because what he really wanted to do was snatch a cigarette and draw on the butt until all the activity in his mind had settled. Not entirely, of course; the events of the previous few days had grown too threatening for that.

  The boy called Suman didn’t attend the local school. And so he couldn’t exist…could he?

  Combating uncomfortable speculation involving his wife and son, he sat on the sofa and gripped one of its arms with whitening thumbs.

  “It’s just that…” Anthony began, no longer mindful of social tact; he simply wanted to know the facts as soon as possible. “…it’s just that the last time I was here, when you told me all you knew about The Conjurer’s House and its previous tenant, I felt…well, I felt as if you were holding something back.”

  “Such as what, Ant?”

  A wind howled outside, brushing against the exterior walls of the terraced property. He hoped his family had already returned safely to his late parents’ bungalow. All he could perceive in his mind’s eye was an insect dwarfed by ungovernable elements of the natural world, and he wondered what had prompted this image…But he should reserve this issue for later. Right now, he must further his urgent enquiry.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied, sensing the older man’s eyes boring into him. They were both intelligent men and there was no reason for subterfuge; he must speak honestly and plainly. “It’s just that on a few occasions, you seemed to—oh, I don’t know—to flounder a little in your narration. Does this make sense?”

  “A curse on psychologists!” Larry was now grinning, but this wasn’t a comforting expression. Indeed, he looked troubled as he continued. “Okay, I will tell you more. But you have to promise…”

  “I will. Whatever.”

  “…you have to promise to bear in mind that what I’m about to relate is all hearsay. Most of it I’ve gathered from rumours and gossip over the years in Deepvale—tales passed from generation to generation. And doing what you do for a living, you’ll know all about the phenomenon of Chinese whispers.”

  Anthony nodded, considering how people often distorted facts, filling in gaps, supplementing assumptions and resorting to other well-documented mechanisms. He also understood the notorious unreliability of others’ accounts, but realised that sometimes this was all folk had to go on: fragments of knowledge with which they strove to form a coherent narrative. Wasn’t that why he’d invited his friends back to Deepvale—because there was no such thing as a God’s-eye view?

  “Right. I get you,” he replied, and settled more squarely in the chair. “Please, continue.”

  Larry leant forwards. What he planned to say clearly required a less vulnerable posture. This observation unsettled Anthony, but then the historian began speaking.

  “You already know what the madman was attempting to do: collapse time, bring back the village’s past to perceive everything at the same time, to achieve the God’s-eye view we discussed during your last visit.”

  Anthony nodded, still craving nicotine. But he merely gripped the arm of the sofa more tightly as Larry went on.

  “For Peter Suman, this wasn’t an idle philosophy. He truly believed it was possible. As I said, this was at the turn of the nineteenth century, the post-Darwinian age. Whatever else we may think, Suman was a brilliant man. He knew his field. And he was way ahead of his time. I’ll tell you why in a moment. But first let me set the scene.

  “In 1899, if my reports are accurate, a number of people started disappearing from Deepvale. The worst thing was…and this, Anthony, is the reason I was reluctant to furnish you with details during your previous visit…the worst thing was that the missing folk were children. Now, hear me out. I know the connection between this and the disappearance of your brother fifteen years ago must race to mind, but let me repeat that none of this tale is indisputable. It’s just rumour, hearsay, gossip…yeah?”

  Anthony had been unable to prevent himself from plucking out his cigarettes and then, without asking permission, sparking his lighter. He thought this would assist reception of the rest of the tale. Smoke bloomed like a demonic accompaniment to the mystical texts on Larry’s bookshelf. Something scudded beyond the only window visible from here—a leaf, no doubt, tumbling from a tree on the moors. Anthony said nothing, using the cigarette to steady his hands, which had begun to shake.

  And then his host continued.

  “Initially, nobody made a connection between the dotty academic in the dark old house and the missing kids. I think I’ve told you that Suman’s face was horribly scarred and that residents were fearful of him, but not in a way that led to speculation about him being a danger to the community. After all, this was a grimmer age; children frequently died or ran away or simply vanished without explanation.

  “A search party was organised, especially after the fifth one disappeared…but all to no avail. Then another seven youngsters went missing, and the villagers, perhaps in desperation, began to grow suspicious. You see, there’d also been a number of curious episodes in the vicinity of The
Conjurer’s House.”

  “I’m listening,” Anthony said, taking another swift intake of nicotine.

  Larry nodded, and inhaled before resuming his narrative.

  “Dogs regularly ran wild near the building, and when their owners went to retrieve them, some heard strange music performed on a piano, but much grander in stature, as if it had been composed for a full orchestra. Suman was a bit of an artist, by all accounts; he liked to write, paint and, by this evidence, compose. But when singing was added to the noise each evening, and not always in his own gruff voice, several villagers became inquisitive. The words, not English or any other language locals had recognised, seemed to have been produced by women, because the tone was high-pitched. But Suman had rarely revealed any inclination towards the fairer sex. He had no family staying—a mother, sisters, or maybe nieces. And so it wasn’t a great stretch of imagination to conclude that the singers were children.”

  Anthony drew from his cigarette, which had burned halfway down with his needful haste. He coughed, not wholly as a consequence of smoke in his lungs.

  “What happened next?” he asked, struggling not to picture Carl at the house alone with Melanie and Lucy, each unable to provide protection for the other.

  “First, let me return to what I promised to reveal earlier.” The historian shuffled in his seat, as if to achieve firmer grip on his narrative. “You’ll remember that Suman knew about Darwin and understood that human beings are evolved from the animal kingdom. Perhaps that was one reason why he had such scant regard for people. But let me be less speculative.

  “More recently in evolutionary theory, it’s been argued, as I imagine you know, that the opposable thumb led to the development of the higher abilities of mankind. That is, primitive man was able to hold objects—tools, if you prefer—and as a result, the tissue of the brain responsible for mastery over nature and enquiry into our origins developed through natural selection. In this sense, practical ability and intelligence go—if you’ll forgive the pun—hand in hand.”

  Anthony looked at his own hand holding the smouldering cigarette. Then he recalled the words Derek Gardiner had used about how his parents had died: The hands that ended their lives had no thumbs…Anthony spilt ash on the carpet but was too disturbed to apologise. He said, “So…so what?”

  Larry had been watching Anthony smoke, and soon his eyes widened with what could only be inspiration.

  “Let me explain it this way. Consider that you’ve just lit up a cigarette. Tell me, why did you do so?”

  He was no mood for parlour games, but if this one got him closer to the knowledge he required, he’d indulge the eccentric man.

  “For…something to do with my hands, I suppose. I’m tense. It helps.”

  “Exactly.” The historian’s eyes beamed brightly. “That’s the point. We all do it. It’s instinctive. At any rate, that’s what Peter Suman believed.”

  “I…I don’t follow. You’ve lost me.”

  Larry let his grin settle. “It’s like this, my friend. The old fellow had figured out that we, as human beings, possess a primordial relationship with our thumbs. Indeed, the prospect of losing either fills many with dread. So…why not invoke this primal sensation by building a device that might remove them?”

  Anthony was on the edge of his chair, his cigarette almost extinguished. But he held on to the butt as if it was an amulet. “He did…what?”

  “Ah, but this is where the story becomes more speculative, I’m afraid. Let me tell you what little I know.”

  “I wish you would. I wish you’d hurry.”

  “Time, my dear chap. Time.”

  That was indeed the theme of their discussion, and at least a minute passed, during which Anthony worried frantically about his family and childhood friends, before Larry began the final passage of his monologue.

  “One night, about this time of the year—when, according to one old sot in the village, certain planets were in conjunction, and after more children had gone missing, making twenty in total—Deepvale played host to a very eerie episode. The sky was full of dark shapes, I’m told. Some folk, all dead now, reckon they saw animals up there, but these had surely been illusions caused by certain configurations of cloud. With so many kids missing, however, a group of men got together to explore The Conjurer’s House; by this time, gossip had reached fever pitch. The women from the village also gathered to search the moors again.

  “As to what happened next…well, we have only confused recollections. Some say a piano was played as children’s voices soared in a choral chant using words resembling Latin, but probably not because one of the men was a staunch Catholic and would have recognised them. At the same time, the heavens churned and things moved out on the hills. One woman reported that she’d seen an elephant, which is ludicrous in Yorkshire, and even more so when she added that it had no trunk and had been too tall, its legs stretched thickly and its head rearing like something about to strike…A hallucination, no doubt: apparently her account had been erratic, as if she’d been unable to see the whole of what she’d imagined.

  “But back to the house. The chorus had shrieked, rising and flowing like the wind that night, which was bitterly cold and seemed to bring other things, not least a scent that one man could hardly describe, muttering only a single word: “horror.” And then…there was a horrendous thud.” The historian paused, but soon added, “Moments later, the world went utterly silent.”

  Anthony waited. He waited and waited. Then he asked frantically, “What was it? What had happened?”

  Larry shrugged. “No one knows for certain. But I’m in possession of evidence passed down from relatives of one hardy soul who actually entered the building. He was a little slow, shall we say? He didn’t always understand the implications of experience, and so while everyone else held back in fear, he ventured forth…and returned about half an hour later. He looked as white as the moon, which had just re-emerged in a sky now cleared of all that choppy black cloud. And this is what he said.

  “He told the other villagers that he’d followed the source of the sound—the kids’ singing. It had taken him into the cellar of The Conjurer’s House, and down there, he explained, he’d found twenty wooden chairs, each with a child strapped inside and all with only their mouths free for movement. Beside them, where their hands were tied to the seats’ arms, metal devices had been stationed, all bearing streaks of blood. On the floor around the chairs were small white objects, two to each youngster…all of whom were those who’d been missing from the village for over three months. But it was only when this guy strayed closer that the real horror of what had happened struck him, causing him to flee immediately.”

  Anthony had dropped his lifeless butt to the carpet. His staring eyes communicated what his throat was unable to convey.

  He was mercifully obliged at once.

  “The metal contraptions above the children’s hands,” Larry explained in a solemn voice, “were blades placed to slice down at a specific moment—presumably when the piano symphony, the paean to God knows what, reached its highest note.” Then, after lapsing into another uncomfortable pause, he finished, “And the things on the floor were the kids’ thumbs.”

  “Good God!”

  But that was when the historian chuckled, even though the sound he produced was obviously anxious.

  “I fear God had little to do with this, Ant, to whatever degree the madman was striving to attain his view.”

  There was a pause, broken only by a rampant wind feeling at the windowpane, as if the world outside wanted to be heard…But then Larry simply went on.

  “Peter Suman had failed of course…I mean, if we take all these fragmentary accounts seriously. Maybe it was because he was just one man. Perhaps his command of art—and it was this, rather than science, that he drew upon to achieve his insane goal—had been insufficient to summon the terrible creatures so many people in the village claimed to have glimpsed that night.”

  The man touched his face,
his thumb gripping his chin. Anthony had been rendered mute and could only listen as the historian’s account was concluded.

  “But let me be a little more hardheaded about this.” Now Larry reclined farther back in his seat. “The following day there was no obvious activity in the property. Villagers were too fearful to approach. A few said they’d heard banging and several other noises overnight, but no one dared investigate, not even the men who’d entered the previous evening. Indeed, evidence suggests that he’d slipped into some sort of catatonic state.

  “Then, about a week later, Peter Suman left Deepvale. He’d gathered together his modest luggage and departed in a horse-drawn carriage, his work here completed…or possibly anything but. Nevertheless, it was some time before residents mustered enough courage to enter that awful house, and even then only a few guys went inside. They came back out within minutes, claiming to have found the cellar empty, with no contraptions or chairs or bodies: just clean walls back glaring implacably. This certainly cast doubt on evidence from the retarded man, who’d still to emerge from his stupor. I’m led to believe he never did recover and died a few months later.

  “So that was that. The kids were never found. And as far as I’m aware, no one ever entered The Conjurer’s House again.”

  “Until…Simon did.”

  “I beg your pardon, Anthony?”

  “Oh, nothing.” But he was lying. A riot of enquiry had formed in his mind, and he found himself reducing this to just several questions. “What was that you said earlier? That Suman was…trying to summon the past—and whatever’s in the past—with art rather than science?”

  Larry pointed a finger heavenwards. “This seems to have been his intention. You’ll recall that science had failed him as a Cambridge student. And he appears to have attempted this alternative strategy.” The historian hesitated, laughed a little, and then stood from his chair. “Hey, I wouldn’t pay too much heed to this. As I said, it’s largely rumour, hearsay, local myth. Just go home, Anthony. Give your wife a kiss. Play with your son.”