by Stephen Laws
Mark’s stomach was beginning to knot as he headed directly for the barrier, hoping that a line of passengers would not form at the last moment. If that happened, and he had to wait he knew his nerve would break again. The walk from the cafe to the barrier seemed interminable; the methodical click-click-click of his walking stick as he moved seemed somehow amplified over the crowd noise. There were no passengers at the Platform Nine gate. This time he would do it, this time he would . . .
Turn back. For God’s sake, turn back.
Go on. Pass through.
Turn back. Turn back.
Oh, my God, my God, my God . . .
Come back . . .
I can do it. It’s easy. If I do it, then I’ll break this damned thing. It won’t have a hold over me any more.
And then Mark saw the stranger again.
He was standing underneath one of the arches, just off to Mark’s right, and scrutinising him as intently as before. The sight sheared through Mark’s resolve with devastating effect. He was four yards from the gate, in no-man’s-land, and the terror which stalked there had found him again.
Get away. Get away.
His nerve gone, Mark turned sharply and headed for the exit, feeling the stranger’s eyes boring into his back. The hope which Dr Aynsley had instilled in him seemed a distant and bitter memory. Mark had been wrong. Things were not as black as they had been before. They were worse.
Twelve
Mark knew that he was dreaming again but was powerless to do anything about it. He remembered that, as a child, he had acquired the ability to wake himself if a dream suddenly developed into a nightmare. But then had come the dreams of the Ghost Train Man, and they refused to be ignored or terminated before they had run their full course. It had been many years since his regular nightmares. Now they had returned. Worse, the Ghost Train Man had returned and threatened to haunt not only Mark’s dream world but his reality, too.
First, the block of stone, the ornamental bars, the coffins. And then, as the familiar purple mist receded, Mark could see that he was flying like a bird over a glittering expanse of water. It was dusk and the sinking sun was casting a ruddy glow on the waves. He was caught in the grip of an invisible bird and could feel the wind ruffling his hair as he moved swiftly onwards. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he realised that he was travelling inwards from the sea down a long inlet; he could see the shore on either side, but no habitation. It looked like wild country. He was swooping lower now, skimming over the water towards a low promontory of land and could see, for the first time, what appeared to be a strange, irregular forest thrusting upwards towards the sky. As Mark drew nearer, he could see that they were not trees. They were standing stones.
From this angle, they appeared as an irregular jumble of jutting monoliths; but now he was moving over and around them, and to the right he could make out a large outcrop of natural boulders. The stones stretched from the boulders in a rough line before curving into a grouping of stones about forty feet across. From the centre of these, a taller, single pillar thrust upwards like an accusing finger. To Mark’s left, he could see a long avenue of stones stretching away into the darkness. His vision misted and, at first, he thought that the dream was over. When he could see again, he was standing in the centre of the configuration with a line of stones stretching out on either side of him. All around him stood the strange monoliths, black in the fading light. There was something different about this dream. He could feel it.
The strange force which held him immobile, and which usually forced him to watch the horrors perpetrated in the prehistoric circles, burial chambers and alignments of his other dreams, was not present. The invisible something which had borne him here on its wings had gone. Mark found that he could move of his own free will and surveyed his surroundings before moving forward to inspect the clustering stones more closely. Darkness was falling rapidly as he tried to orientate himself. Where was he this time? It was hopeless. He could be anywhere in the world; past, present or future. And as he stood and looked, he could feel a strange uneasiness at the back of his mind. In all his other dreams, something terrible always happened. What possible horror could this new development hold in store for him? With a growing premonition, he began to move quickly out of the circle to his right. He felt too vulnerable standing there. He would feel the wind on his body, although he was not cold. He was wearing his black jacket and grey trousers. Mark congratulated his subconscious for providing him with warm clothing. This is crazy, he thought. I can feel the grass under my feet.
He passed between two angular stones, hesitated for a moment and then moved quickly to one of them, rubbing his hand over its rough surface. He could feel the ice-cold stone. He continued on. He was out of the circle now and moving down a long avenue of irregularly spaced stones stretching ahead of him into the night. The wind was building and it buffeted him as he walked.
It was after he had passed twelve of the stones and could still see more ahead of him that he first felt something was wrong.
He had been waiting for something bad to happen. It always did. But as he turned back to look the way he had come, he could see nothing. Only the wind hissing through the unkempt grass surrounding the silent, unyielding stones. Strangely, he heard the lonely, plaintive call of a cuckoo from somewhere in the darkening gloom. But there were no processions of strangely clad figures; no rejects from a Boris Karloff movie; no struggling and mutely silent sacrificial victims. There’s nothing there, Mark told himself. He repeated it aloud and wished that he hadn’t. His words sounded hollow . . . and somehow challenging. No, said a whispered dread in Mark’s brain. There is something back there. You can’t see it. But it’s there. And it’s coming.
Mark moved closer to the nearest monolith and placed his hand against it. God, he knew there was something back there. He screwed his eyes shut and willed himself awake. It would not work. When he opened his eyes, he was still standing by the pillar looking back along the line of stones towards the circle and . . .
Something had moved back there. He could swear to it. Something darker than night had passed between two pillars in the circle. Mark strained to see and suddenly felt an unnatural pulse in his fingertips where they touched the stone. It was a cold pulsing, like the single beat of an inhuman heart that had been dead for centuries. He pulled his hand away as if the monolith itself were alive and for an instant seemed to see a faint glow from the stone. A glow which revealed a bizarre network of living veins and arteries. The impression quickly faded and he looked back towards the circle and saw the movement again. Something was moving around the stones back there; weaving in and out. It was indistinguishable from the stones, perhaps dressed in a black, flowing garment of some kind which floated around it as it moved. It seemed to be following a strange pattern, perhaps tracing an unfathomable route marked out by the stones themselves. But it was the height of the tall, angular figure which struck a note of fear and dread into Mark’s heart. Nothing so tall could be human. And now it had broken from the circle and was moving in Mark’s direction, still weaving in and out between the stones. Mark seemed to know that the thing, whatever it was, was bound to the stones in some curious way. It was moving faster now, because it had seen him. And, whatever it was – it seemed to have horns.
This nightmare was worse than the others. There was something dreadful and unhealthy about the shape which advanced towards him. Mark turned and fled as the unspeakable figure swept nearer and, as he ran, he could hear the voice of Helen and her friends singing in the schoolyard: a childish singing that was somehow the most dreadful thing he had ever heard.
Eeny meeny miny mo,
Eeny meeny miny mo,
Eeny meeny miny mo.
Mark could not bring himself to turn as he ran blindly ahead. He knew that it was behind him. He knew that it was horrible. And that it was somehow bound to the stones. He was within its lair, w
ithin its domain, and he knew that if he could reach the last monolith in the avenue and run beyond it, the thing could not follow after him. It was a prisoner of the stones and could not follow. Another stone reared up ahead of him and he could hear his pursuer right behind him now. He could hear the flap, flap, flap of whatever it was that came.
Mark could see the last stone ahead of him.
Something sharp and covered in coarse fur scraped the back of his neck.
Mark found himself sitting up in bed, bolt upright and awake. The dream had ended. There was sweat on his brow even though snow was beating against the windows in the night. Spiny, skeletal shadows were dancing on the bedroom wall, cast by the tree outside. Joanne was sleeping silently beside him. He wasn’t out in the godforsaken wild somewhere, wandering out in the dark among prehistoric tourist attractions. He was at home, in bed, and he had been having one of those terrible dreams again. It had been bad tonight. But not as bad as the Ghost Train Man. Mark prayed that he would never dream that dream again. Even so, the dark and confused image of the thing which had pursued him tonight must surely be the stuff of fantasy. This was something that H.P. Lovecraft would have written about. It wasn’t, it couldn’t be real. And the horrific fantasy of the image was in a curious way comforting, despite the terror of the experience. All Mark’s previous dreams had seemed so real that he could not have sworn that they did not actually happen. Even tonight’s dream had been incredibly realistic, but surely this one had all the ingredients of a true nightmare. It could not have been real.
Mark got out of bed quietly. He did not want to disturb Joanne. She had worried too much, put up with too much. He looked down at her silently sleeping form as he pulled back the quilt to cover her. I love you, Joanne, he thought. And I don’t know how you’ve been able to stay with me since the accident. If you’d wanted to leave me and taken Helen with you, I couldn’t have blamed you.
He moved quietly out of the bedroom onto the landing and into the bathroom, turning on the taps and splashing his face with cold water to wash away the sweat. The horror had gone. And tomorrow he would be seeing Dr Aynsley again after physiotherapy. Mark caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked thin, pale and dishevelled. There was a scar across his forehead which was yet another legacy of the accident. It seemed strange, looking at the thin, white line across his hairline. He had no memory of receiving that scar. He did not know why it had happened or how it had happened. It seemed somehow strange that he had not felt the pain of the wound. It was as if something had come, gone and left its mark and he had no say in the matter. Mark sighed and moved back out onto the landing. The sound of sighing and mumbled words drew his attention to Helen’s bedroom. He opened the door and looked in. She was asleep and, as he watched her, he realised that she was dreaming. He stood in the doorway for a moment watching her. Yes, she was obviously having some kind of nightmare as she tossed and turned in bed, clutching at the quilt. Mark went into the bedroom and crossed quickly to the bed.
‘It’s all right, darling. It’s all right. You’re just having a bad dream, that’s all.’ So speaketh the purveyor of bad dreams, thought Mark ruefully as he took Helen gently around the waist. She woke sleepily, with the image of the dream still strong in her mind. She began to weep drowsily and Mark cradled her in his arms, whispering words of comfort and hoping that, as long as she lived, she would never have dreams like his over the last six months. ‘What’s wrong, darling? Don’t cry. It was only a dream.’
‘It’s the little boy, Daddy. He’s so sad. He comes to my room every night and talks to me. He doesn’t like being dead.’
Fear and horror seemed to have sprung from the dark, from his own daughter, and seized his soul. It was like an electric shock. No, she couldn’t be talking about . . . she couldn’t . . . no, this can’t be right. I’m dreaming again. The last dream hasn’t finished . . .
‘Which little boy?’ Mark found himself asking.
‘He comes here to talk about you, Daddy. He’s your friend. But he’s so sad and frightened, and he won’t let me look at him properly because he says he’s been dead for a long time and his face is all yucky and stuff.’
Mark was stroking his daughter’s hair. When he spoke again, he was surprised to hear his own voice; wondered why the words had not choked away and he had not plunged into screaming madness.
‘What does he say?’
‘Well, he can’t speak very well because his mouth has gone all funny. But sometimes I can understand him. He just talks about Mummy and you and me. He asks me what we’ve been doing. And I tell him about my friends. He says that you were his friend once, a long time ago. He can never stay with me for very long because he’s frightened that the Man will find out he’s here.’
Oh my God, thought Mark. What am I going to do?
‘He said for me to tell you that you mustn’t go back. I don’t know what he means, but he says that you’ll know. And then he keeps saying a funny word. A word that I don’t understand. But that’s all he can say when I ask him to explain, Daddy. Because if he says any more the Man will hear him.’
‘What word, darling?’
‘It sounds like . . . like . . . “Has-he-mouth”. Something like that. Oh, he’s so sad, Daddy. He’s been dead for so long and he’s so lonely. I wish we could do something for him.’
‘Don’t worry, love. I’m here now. It was just a dream, that’s all. Just a dream.’
Mark sat with his daughter until she had returned to her deep, innocent sleep. He tucked her in and walked back to the bathroom. He shut the door, bolted it and sat down on the lavatory seat. For a while, he fingered the small silver crucifix around his neck that Helen had insisted Joanne should buy him for a present on her behalf. The tile floor was cold on the soles of his feet. Outside, he could hear the wind blowing wildly against the house. He could not control his trembling as he buried his face in his hands. He looked down at the tiles between his feet. A large black spider crouched there, as big as a fifty pence piece; thick black legs splayed out at its sides. Suddenly horrified, he swept it aside with his foot, a wave of unexpected nausea coming over him. The feeling of sickness cramped his stomach and began to bubble upwards. He lifted the toilet seat and retched into the bowl.
What in hell is happening? he screamed silently in his mind.
Thirteen
‘We’ve got to do it now.’
‘Mark, do you have any idea what time it is? It’s three o’clock in the morning. Now listen, I want you to . . .’
‘You gave me your private number. You said I could ring you any time. We’ve got to do it now, Dr Aynsley! I can’t take any more of this.’
‘I’m not sufficiently prepared, Mark. For the kind of hypnosis I have in mind we need special supervision, special equipment.’
‘Screw all that and screw what time in the morning it is! We’ve got to do it now or I’m going to lose my mind.’
‘All right, all right. Calm down, Mark . . .’
‘I’m coming over to your place. Now!’
‘Not here, Mark. Listen, can you get to the clinic or do you want me to pick you up?’
‘I can get there.’
‘All right . . . take it easy . . . I’ll meet you at the main entrance. I have my own central key but, to be honest, I can’t see how this is going . . .’
‘Now, Dr Aynsley.’
Click.
Aynsley turned from the couch where Mark lay to check on the tape recorder he had taken from the top drawer of his bureau and placed on a small table beside them. It was less than two minutes since he had turned on the machine and Mark now lay in a deep hypnotic state. He had obviously been deeply distressed when he had telephoned earlier this morning. So distressed that the doctor had feared that Mark’s anxiety about schizophrenia might have been realised after all. Incredibly, Mark had succumbed easily to hypnosis. It was almost as if he h
ad willed himself into this state. Aynsley had met with varying degrees of success when it came to hypnotherapy sessions and some of his subjects were extremely receptive; but Mark had been induced into a hypnotic state almost immediately. There had been none of the violent reactions which had accompanied Aynsley’s attempts to hypnotise him in the past.
The tape was still running. ‘The subject is now in a receptive state,’ said Aynsley quietly, resolving to end the trance the moment that Mark showed any signs of distress. ‘Mark? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ Mark’s voice sounded slurred and far away, his breathing heavy and regular.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes. Dr Aynsley.’
‘Do you trust me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to listen to my voice very carefully. You are very relaxed. You feel very peaceful and there is nothing at all to be worried about. We are going to have a little talk . . .’
‘Azimuth.’
‘What? What did you say, Mark?’ Mark had mumbled something under his breath and Aynsley could not quite make it out. He decided to disregard it and continued: ‘We are going to have a talk, Mark. And I am going to ask you questions about the accident on the train.’ Mark was frowning now, shifting uneasily on the couch. ‘And when I ask you these questions, Mark, you will take the role of an outside observer. Watching yourself. And whatever you see, whatever you remember, it cannot harm you and you will not be afraid of it. Do you understand me, Mark?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I want you to say that you will not be afraid.’
‘I will not be afraid.’
‘Good. Now, we’re going back to the day of the accident. It’s Wednesday morning, September 25th. You’ve just had breakfast. Can you remember what you had to eat?’