A Cry From Beyond (9 page)

“What the
hell was that about?” I said, thinking aloud. “It’s as if they’d
come along to see what we were up to.”

“Well, at
least they weren’t bats,” David said trying to make light of
it.

“Bats I
would’ve preferred,” I replied in all seriousness. “At least
they’re nocturnal and wouldn’t be out of place.”

“Where
are the others?” David asked, changing the subject.

“Taking a
look around upstairs I think.”

We
crossed the room to an open doorway, the other side of which a
narrow flight of stairs ascended steeply. From above, I could hear
footfalls sounding upon floorboards, combined with that of muffled
voices. We climbed the stairs. On the landing we were greeted by
Irish, whose rugged features were illuminated spectrally by the
flame from the lighter he held in front of him.

“There’s
nothing up here but cobwebs and bad fucking air,” he announced
sullenly.

The news
was welcome. After all, we’d gone there afraid we would discover a
corpse. Relieved, we trooped back to the cottage, but the relief
was short lived. We returned to find the place in total darkness
with Lennon in an agitated state, and with no sign of Terry. I
tried switching on the lights, but without success. We called
Terry’s name, but got nothing back. Panic started to break out with
everyone speaking at once.

“Where
the hell is he?”

“He’s
gone! Something’s taken him!”

“Not
again. Please, not again.”

David’s
voice suddenly rose above the others, pleading for calm to be
restored.

Everyone
fell silent, and listened for some tell tale sound suggesting Terry
was still in the house.

“He’s not
here,” Rick finally declared from the darkness.

“He has
to be.” Irish argued back.

Suddenly
H shouted Terry’s name, his booming voice shaking with
frustration.

Once
again, nothing...

In the
corner of the kitchen Lennon’s silhouette gave out a distressed
whine. I tried the lights again. Still they refused to
work.

“Check
the fuse box,” someone said, I think it was David.

“Where is
it?” H asked.

“Just
inside the cellar,” I said, training the torch beam in that
direction.

Irish
went over and opened the door. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he said
recoiling. “Stinks like a fucking bitch in here.” He fumbled about
for a moment, flicked a switch, and the lights suddenly sparked to
life.

“Fucking
Hallelujah!” he declared, voicing everyone’s sense of
relief.

All we
had to do now was find Terry.

We turned
on every single light in the place and searched high and low, but
he was nowhere to be found. Either he was playing a joke at our
expense—and a pretty poor one at that—or he’d gone the same way as
the ill-fated Mary-Louise, and simply vanished off the face of the
earth.

“
He’s got to be somewhere,” David said as we drifted into the
living room, deeply bewildered by events. In the brief time we’d
been absent from the cottage, it seemed Terry had ceased to exist.
Nothing in the house was disturbed, and nothing had been taken. For
a short while we sat around feeling numb, whilst discussing the
situation in hushed tones, trying to find some kind of logical
explanation for what had happened.

“It’s
almost as if the cottage has started feeding on people,” Rick said
thinking aloud. H turned on him, accused him of crazy talk, but he
was unrepentant. “Got any better ideas Sherlock?”

“The
house that ate people,” David said picking up on the theme.
“Nice.”

“Sounds
like a movie title,” Rick said.

“Pack it
in, Irish growled, “Terry’s missing so stop making light of
it.”

“I
wasn’t,” Rick argued, but Irish wasn’t finished.

“Unless
you’ve got something useful to say, keep it shut. Got
it?”

“So what
do we do now?” H asked, following a tense silence.

“We make
a further search,” I suggested, “This time to include the cottage
grounds. Go even further if we’re of a mind.”

So that’s
what we did, venturing as far as the abandoned farmhouse, but there
was still no sign of him. As the night bore on we grew increasingly
concerned. High Bank was suddenly as mysterious, and as sinister,
as the Bermuda triangle. Finally, and with great reluctance, I
suggested we call the police.

“And tell
‘em what exactly?” H asked.

“The
truth I guess,” I said.

“You mean
report him as a missing person, like Mary Louise,” David
asked.

Just then
a large and extremely ugly beetle scuttled from beneath the
potbelly. It was promptly flattened by Irish’s boot.

Suddenly
two more of the creatures emerged, almost identical in size and
appearance to the first. Irish got them too.

“Jesus;
did you have to do that,” Rick asked grimacing.

Irish was
indignant. “What do you suggest I do, take the fuckers for a
walk?”

I stared
at my feet, unable to look. Those beetles made me uncomfortable. A
few had been in evidence scuttling around in the hall on the night
Mary-Louise disappeared. I said nothing of this to the others
however; primarily because it didn’t seem that important. They were
just beetles, after all.

Once the
excitement of the kill had died down, and the resulting mess was
cleared up, I tentatively checked beneath the potbelly for others,
but found none. The incident, unpleasant though it was, had
supplied a welcome distraction from the real issue of Terry’s
disappearance. In the end however, like it or not, we were forced
to return to the unpalatable subject. H started the ball rolling by
pointing out that Terry lived at home with his parents

“Let’s
call them first, before we call the police” he suggested, “Why
don’t we contact them in the morning, see if he made it home
sometime during the night?

“Why not
call them now,” I asked.

“I’ve got
his parents number in my mobile,” Rick informed us.

“Call
them,” I said, so he did.

Terry’s
father answered, and informed us that his son was
absent.

“Is there
a problem?” he asked.

“No
problem,” Rick said. “But would you mind calling me back if he
turns up.”

Terry’s
father said he would, and Rick ended the call.

While
this was going on, I was studying Lennon, who roamed the room like
a caged animal. Evidently something had upset him while he’d been
alone with Terry. If only he could tell us what he had
seen.

The
unsettling turn of events made conversation difficult, so we called
it a night. The gang collected their belongings together and piled
outside into the van, minus one, to drive off into the foggy
darkness. After they’d gone, I wandered aimlessly about the house,
trying to figure out what was going on, but failed to come up with
any answers, for what had happened defied explanation.

CHAPTER SIX

Terry
never arrived home according to his parents. I got the unwelcome
news from David, who phoned the next day sounding like a man who
has the weight of the world on his shoulders, and is slowly being
crushed by the pressure.

“Jenny
and I are worried sick,” he admitted.

I barely
heard him. My thoughts were centred almost entirely on Terry.
“Where the hell did he disappear to, Dave? If he didn’t stay here
and didn’t go home, then where did he go?” I glanced over at
Lennon, who was watching me closely from the corner of the
room.

“There’s
still no sign of Mary-Louise either,” David said, ignoring my
question, apparently deciding conjecture was pointless.

“We
should call the police right now,” I said. “See what they make of
it.”

David
agreed.

Just then
I caught movement through the window. A large black bird had come
to roost on the ledge directly outside. It appeared to be observing
me. It tapped the windowpane with its beak, as if seeking access. I
could see others out there, in the background, perched on the
branches of trees, and on fence posts. They were even in evidence
inside the gazebo. Still more of the creatures cawed from the
rooftop above me. All of a sudden it felt as if the cottage was
under siege. The din caused David to pass comment. “What’s
happening over there? It sounds like you’re in a bloody
aviary.”

“It’s the
birds,” I said, stating the obvious.

I reached
for the pack of cigarettes lying on the table in front of me,
pulled one out and lit it. My hand trembled
imperceptibly.

David
said, “Leave the cops to me, John,” but I wasn’t really listening.
I was far too busy watching the birds watching me. I suddenly felt
like a prisoner. Like it or not, I was forced to accept that the
birds intimidated me far more than I previously cared to admit. I
recalled their sinister appearance during my exploration of the
folly: how they’d launched the unprovoked attacks on the little
girl, who I’d come to think of as the daughter of the mystery
blonde.

I was
still staring through the window at the birds when David said:
“I’ll let you know the outcome of my conversation with the cops as
soon as I can.” With that he said his goodbyes and hung up, leaving
me to ponder his words, while I observed the bird perched on the
ledge outside.

Annoyed
by its intrusive presence, I slammed a fist against the glass pane
separating us, and the creature took flight. The others gathered at
various points around the garden did likewise. Within seconds not a
single bird remained. It was, I thought, as if they’d communicated
their intentions telepathically, and acted as one entity. I
continued to stare through the window, smoking my cigarette, my
thoughts in a whirl.

That
afternoon Gentleshaw called round to carry out maintenance work on
the gazebo in the back garden, explaining that it was suffering
from woodworm, and that parts of its structure had to be replaced
before the problem spread, and became irreversible. We were
standing outside on the driveway, both rugged up in heavy winter
clothing. The afternoon was a bitterly cold one. Snow was forecast
although Gentleshaw was of the opinion it was too cold for snow. I
didn’t envy the old guy having to work in such adverse conditions,
although I suspected he was used to it.

As we
talked, the birds returned to roost on the ridge tiles of the
cottage roof. This time they were eerily silent.

“What is
it with the birds around here,” I said looking up at them. “One
minute they’re so noisy you can barely hear yourself think, the
next it’s like they’re eves-dropping on your
conversation.”

Ignoring
the question, Gentleshaw unloaded tools from his old Astra van. As
he slammed shut the van doors, he said, “Best I get on before the
weather turns.”

“Is it
common for so many birds to congregate in one place?” I asked,
refusing to let the subject drop.

Pausing,
fixing me with his deep blue eyes, he said, “Birds have been a part
of High Bank for a very long time Mr O’Shea.” His gaze drifted
briefly to the rooftop. “Local legend has it that they watch over
the place, awaiting their master’s return.”

“Their
master being...”

“The man
responsible for the majority of buildings in this area... Ebenezer
Grimshaw.”

He
wandered off carrying a toolbox in one hand, and a saw in the
other. I followed him through a wooden side gate and down a narrow
path that led into the back yard. Arriving at the bottom of the
garden, I said, “And what about the cellar?”

Again he
paused, this time frowning curiously. “What of it?”

I told
him about the omnipresent smell, hoping he might provide an
explanation or possible solution.

But he
was dismissive, saying simply, “Cellar’s in old houses have a
tendency to smell due to damp.” He started sawing a piece of rotten
wood from the gazebos upright.

Just then
a sudden gust of wind almost dislodged his flat cap from his head.
He broke off from his work just long enough to straighten it and
then, returning to the task at hand and with his back to me, he
said, “I heard about the party you held the other
night.”

Here we
go, I thought, thinking he was about to voice disapproval. I was
mistaken, however. Seemed he’d heard about Mary-Louise, and instead
of criticising, he attempted to offer reassurance.

“
I wouldn’t go worrying your-self too much,” he said. “She’s
been known to go walkabout before. When she was fifteen she ran
away from home to live in London. Story goes that she shared a
squat in the east end for a time, with a gang of skinheads and
junkies, my point being that she ain’t exactly a total innocent, if
you know what I mean.”

“That’s
as maybe,” I said. “But according to her boyfriend, she had no
reason to run off this time.”