The Ghosts of Sleath (19 page)

A
H NOW
,
SO THIS
is the place. Pleasant. No, more than pleasant: a
beautiful
little village. Such a pity, such a great shame
.

The diminutive man on the bench crossed his legs, cupped his hands around his knee, and rocked backwards and forwards for a few moments, the movement slight, his narrow shoulders barely leaving the back of the seat. He tapped his thin, silver-handled walking cane on the grass thoughtfully.

Someone passing through might think the place was ordinary enough - well, much too pretty with its olde worlde inne and quaint houses, its village green with pond, to be described as ordinary, but to be sure, they’d imagine it was tranquil and certainly uneventful. Oh yes, and the casual visitor might assume that the villagers themselves were perfectly nice and without any special cares other than those that normal everyday living dreams up, and they’d never notice the distant but - if you looked ever so carefully - telltale disquiet behind the polite smiles, a kind of spiritual discomfort in their evasive eyes
.

This is the place, without doubt. God in His great Heaven, you can feel the trembling of the very air itself, you can sniff the sour stench of trepidation. These people - look at them walking by, barely nodding to each other, avoiding eye contact - these people
suspect
something is terribly wrong with their village, but
right now they don’t know what. They’re waiting for something, but they haven’t a clue as to what that something could be
.

Seamus Phelan scratched an itch inside his nose then, his mind on other things, wiped his finger on the red-with-white-spots handkerchief that flopped from the breast pocket of his hairy tweed jacket. He studied the ground in front of him for a little while, contemplating the dark stains in the grass, a deep frown corrugating his forehead, a shadow temporarily veiling the usual merriment of his grey-green eyes.

Now that’s nasty dried blood tainting the grass there (how rank life’s liquid becomes when spilt so recklessly) and spoiling the peace with its implication. Something has happened here on this very spot and very recently, something horrible and violent. Death has had its bony fingers in it, but its grip was not quite enough. Yes, yes, I can
feel
it. Death has not had its way here, but it stands sulking close by. There will be other opportunities
.

He craned his neck to watch a red Ford drive by the green, his interest in the driver rather than the vehicle itself. His little eyes, almost merry once more, narrowed as he tried to discern the man’s features, but the sun was high and there was too much shade inside the car. Nevertheless, he caught a glimpse of profile.

Hmn, strong face. Full of uncertainties, though. Now why should this man attract my attention so? Ah yes, he’s part of it. Mercy, the sensing is strong. Look now, he’s caught it too. He’s glancing this way, searching. He sees me, but he’s not sure. He looks away again, watching the road. The man’s full of confusion
.

The little Irishman watched as David Ash pulled into the last remaining space of the small parking area on the other side of the pond. He watched him lock the car and cross the road to the Black Boar, walking around the police car parked at the kerb, to reach the inn’s entrance. Ash stopped and looked around once more before going inside.

He doesn’t belong here, that’s for sure. He’s a stranger like meself. Yet he’s part of what’s going on here. Called by these
terrible vibrations, I wonder? Are they what brought him to this place too?

Phelan became still on the bench. He gazed at the door of the inn.

No, this man’s power was not that strong. Or, to be precise, his power was far too repressed. Still and all, we must get together before too long. Before it’s too late, I mean. For the moment though, let’s just sit here and absorb whatever it is I can absorb. The pond there, for instance. Horrible stagnant thing. And it’s deep beyond any earthly depth, and I’ve decided I don’t like sitting so close to it. Perhaps I’ll take a walk up to the church I can see in the distance. Always a good place to start and nobody pays any attention to strangers snooping around such old places of interest
.

Seamus Phelan stood and shook each leg in turn as if dislodging creases in his own flesh. Then he lifted his jaunty narrow-brimmed hat just enough to sweep a hand over silver strands of thinning hair. This done he snapped the hat smartly back into place, picked up the cane again, straightened his shoulders with a brisk jerk and prepared to move off towards the church on the hill. But something else caught his attention, something he was surprised he hadn’t observed earlier. He had noticed the whipping post and stocks even before he had settled on the bench, but then there had been nothing untoward about them. At this moment, though, a dark fluid - as dark as the stuff on the grass - was running down the ancient, scarred wood of the whipping post.

He wandered over to the old monuments of torture and torment and touched a finger to the slick wetness. His finger was coloured red when he brought it away again.

Now would you look at that
.

He examined the post once more and then his finger. He shook his head in wonder.

Sweet Jaisus, why would the wood be weeping blood?

A
SH DREW UP
outside Ellen Preddle’s tiny terraced cottage, pulled on the handbrake, and sat there for a few moments staring through the windscreen. He felt weary and wasn’t sure why. Certainly he’d had a bad night, for the dreams had been vivid, distressing; yet he’d become accustomed to such dreams over the years. So maybe the weariness was physical, rather than mental. The long walk to the ruins of Lockwood Hall in the heat of the day had been tiring enough and then, on his return to the Black Boar Inn he had been interviewed by the local police. And lying was always a little wearing.

To protect his client’s confidence, he had told the two policemen that he had been engaged by the vicar of St Giles’ to help collate the long-neglected church records (this inspired by Grace Lockwood’s remark that she had been hired by the
Musée de Cluny
to chronologize its exhibits) and to restore them where possible, omitting the word Psychical when he’d mentioned he was from the Institute of Research. It was a small lie only, in the best interest of his client, and he doubted they would bother to check it out, for their enquiries were ‘routine’: because of last night’s murder of a gamekeeper, any visitors to Sleath, as well as locals, were being questioned.

The whole interview had taken no more than ten minutes and had been conducted in the privacy of the inn’s empty dining
room, away from the prying ears and eyes of a couple of provincial journalists who had arrived in Sleath to cover both the murder and the appalling act of violence that had occurred on the village green only the afternoon before. When Ash had retired to the bar for a quick drink and a sandwich before tackling the first part of his report to the Institute, he noticed the journalists were being given short shrift by some of the inn’s lunchtime patrons. Curt grunts and the occasional monosyllabic response seemed to be the order of the day, and when he, himself, was approached to be asked how he felt about the spread of urban violence to quiet rural communities like Sleath, he had brusquely explained he was a visitor, downed his drink in one and taken the sandwiches up to his room.

The rest of the afternoon had been spent there, going through his notes, listening to the taped conversations between himself and Reverend Lockwood, Grace, the farmer Sam Gunstone and, of course, Ellen Preddle, transcribing them onto paper by hand before typing them up on the compact but efficient typewriter he’d brought with him.

That completed, he’d rested on his bed smoking a cigarette, occasionally sipping vodka from the hip flask he kept on the bedside cabinet, and reflecting on what he’d learned so far from his investigations. Time and time again, though, his thoughts returned to Grace Lockwood.

It was foolish, he told himself, foolish to get involved with a client while an investigation was in progress. It was a distraction and, in a way, almost as unprofessional as a doctor or psychiatrist becoming involved with a patient: it could lead to unnecessary complications. Besides, the last time it happened had proved disastrous in every way.

Nevertheless, he was attracted to Grace and he knew she was attracted to him. This rapport, this odd but potent
frisson
between them, could not be denied. And this time, unlike before, the woman was real, she was not a deceit.

These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind as he sat there in the car and he pushed them away, aware that Ellen
Preddle was probably watching him from behind lace curtains - she and possibly one or two of her neighbours - waiting for him to come to the front door. Would she allow him to set up the equipment as she’d agreed yesterday, he wondered, or would she be having second thoughts, frightened by what had happened to Grace in her kitchen? Would she tell him to leave her alone, or would she welcome his help? One way to find out.

He opened the car door and went round to the boot. Some of the fatigue left him as he unloaded equipment for, as ever, the prospect of detecting genuine paranormal activity sent a rush of adrenaline through him.

Carrying two cases, one large, the other smallish, he pushed through the squeaky gate and walked up the short path to the cottage. The door opened before he was even halfway there.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly eleven. Dark outside and as quiet as the grave inside. Ash checked the small television monitor screen that was set up on the table a few feet away from the staircase and saw only the monochrome image of the empty bathroom on the floor above. He watched the picture for several minutes, searching for something - anything - out of place. All was perfectly normal

He picked up the half-smoked cigarette from the tin ashtray he’d found in the kitchen earlier and inhaled deeply. The burning end glowed brightly in the semi-darkened room. As yet boredom had not set in, even though he had been keeping watch for hours, and that was odd, for long surveillances, no matter what the circumstances, invariably led to tedium after the first two hours.

Wires from the monitor trailed up the stairs to a video-camera on a tripod situated at the open doorway of the bathroom. Opposite, inside the bathroom itself, was a tripod-mounted Polaroid camera with automatic flash, fitted with a
capacitance change detector which would trigger it off at the slightest disturbance. The camcorder had a similar device attached to it. A sound-activated cassette recorder had been placed by the bath and a light layer of talcum powder had been sprinkled on the floor and inside the bathtub itself. A greenhouse thermometer was balanced on the back of the sink and there was another outside on the stairs, this one smaller and capable of registering the highest and the lowest temperatures recorded during the surveillance. More fine powder had been sprinkled on several of the steps and thin black cotton stretched across the third one from the bottom. An ordinary camera, loaded with infra-red film, stood on its tripod by the front door, facing the stairs. On the table in front of Ash were two torches, yet another automatic camera using ordinary fast-film stock, various transparent envelopes and clear plastic containers, a spring balance and strain gauge, as well as pens, pencils, chalk and willow charcoal, notebook, and paper on which he had sketched floor plans of the cottage, both upstairs and downstairs. Other equipment was packed away in the larger of the two cases he’d brought in with him, and there was still more in the boot of the car.

Ash studied the floor plans by the light of a small table lamp while he smoked. Ellen Preddle was in her bedroom, hopefully asleep by now, under instruction not to leave the room until he called her, no matter what she heard. If anything disturbed her inside her own bedroom, then she was to call him immediately. The bathroom was not to be used during the night and Ash hoped she had made her own arrangements regarding toilet facilities. All windows were shut tight and the house had felt uncomfortably stuffy for most of the evening although it had gradually began to cool as the hour grew later.

Ellen Preddle had looked far from well when she had opened the door to him earlier. The darkness around her eyes had increased noticeably and even before he’d reached the doorstep the wildness of her expression was apparent. Perversely, the hands that had never been still on their first meeting now
remained motionless by her side, and her shoulders appeared even more slouched. She wore the same flower-patterned dress and, despite the heat of the day, the same thin cardigan. Her hair was untidier, the black-grey locks tangled and dishevelled. To his surprise, she allowed him into the house without question.

As he set up various pieces of equipment he’d explained their functions, but she had sat in the armchair by the empty hearth, disinterested and barely looking at him whenever he asked a direct question, her replies mumbled, almost unintelligible. Later he’d been relieved when he had suggested she retire to her bed for the night and she rose without demur, going straight to the stairs. Ash had to call out instructions for her not to leave her room during the night and the only response had been the closing of her door. Since then there had not been a sound from upstairs.

He yawned and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Tiredness, usually enhanced by boredom, was often the first hurdle to be overcome and no matter what hour the watch had begun, drowsiness generally hit around midnight or shortly after; tonight the tiredness had probably struck a little earlier because of the previous bad night. He dogged the cigarette and resisted the urge to light another; instead he reached around to his jacket hanging over the back of his chair and drew out the hip flask from a side pocket. He unscrewed the lid and took a light sip, just enough to revive him. When tiredness returned later, as it always did, he would take another nip and so on through the night until the early hours.

Flask still in one hand, he idly picked up a pencil and began to draw a rough sketch of the kitchen, working out the apparent trajectory of the saucer that allegedly had flown from the shelf and cracked against Grace Lockwood’s forehead before shattering on the tiled floor. The drawing was merely for the record, for without an independent witness it could not be registered as a paranormal occurrence; it also served to occupy his mind for a short while.

As he worked he noticed a vapour mist was forming each time he breathed out.

He straightened, realizing just how cool the night air had become. He felt an itch on his bare arms as the hairs there began to stiffen. It wasn’t merely cooler - it had become decidedly cold.

Ash rolled down his shirtsleeves and looked around the room while he buttoned them. The temperature drop was unreasonable unless the climate outside had suddenly altered, and he started to rise with the intention of checking the thermometer on the stairs.

It was as he pushed back the chair that he heard a dull thud from upstairs.

He remained still, holding his breath and listening. Was Ellen Preddle awake and moving about? It was possible; the poor woman looked as though she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. But the noise had sounded as if it had come from directly overhead. From the bathroom.

Ash looked at the monitor screen. All was still in the bathroom. There were no extraneous shadows and nothing was out of place. Something caught his eye though, but this was not on the screen. This was on the staircase a few feet away from him.

The talcum powder he had spread on the stairs earlier was beginning to billow as though a draught had disturbed it.

He held his breath as the fine powder swirled languidly into the air. When it had risen to a height of two or more feet, Ash went to the camera containing infra-red film, his movement easy and his senses alert, all boredom and tiredness driven off.

He pressed the shutter release, the
click
, followed by the fast whir of the camera’s electric motor as it wound on the film, extraordinarily loud in the quietness of the night. He took three more shots as the powder-mist spread along the steps, now dropping in height but becoming thicker, its motion growing more rapid as if impelled by something more than a draught. Within seconds it was dense. Like driven smoke, it began to
take on a direction, rising again, but keeping low to the stairs, surging over each one in undulating waves. Upwards it poured, twisting at the bend, a long vaporous stream that flowed and rippled, eventually trailing off on the lower steps, leaving them clear.

Its ragged end was disappearing into the upper reaches when he decided to act. He hurried forward, pausing at the first stair before continuing, then climbing at a slower, more cautious, pace. He had reached the stair over which the thin black cotton had been stretched when a terrible, heart-stopping scream shattered the silence.

It had the sound of an animal in mortal terror and Ash reeled back against the staircase wall in surprise. The scream persisted, filling the air, reaching a shattering pitch before abruptly ending. An eerie silence followed in its wake, and then footsteps pounded along the landing over his head. Shadows shifted on the wall by the bend in the stairs and bright flashes were reflected off its surface. He shrank back.

Oh dear God, he didn’t want to go up there. He didn’t want to see whatever had made that awful and piteous scream. His shoulder slid against the wooden wall as he retreated a step. He hadn’t been prepared for this, for even though he had been forced to confront horrors that had chilled his very soul in the past, the scream he had just heard had left him in a state of shock. But it was not only the scream, for a mood of dreadful and debilitating menace had seeped into the atmosphere as if from the walls of the cottage itself. And as it held him there, afraid, unable to move any further, the noxious stench of corruption drifted down from the floor above.

His whole body flinched at the next scream, but this time the sound was different: it was the distressed cry of a woman in terrible torment. He knew it had come from Ellen Preddle, and as a crash and more screams came to him, he knew he had to help her, he couldn’t let her face whatever had manifested itself up there alone. Ash forced himself away from the wall and the moment he did so his resolve strengthened. He
tore up the stairs, unknowingly breaking the cotton thread as he went, stumbling as he rounded the bend and bruising a shin. He kept going, avoiding the trailing wires and quickly reaching the narrow landing. The stench struck him almost like a physical blow and he turned his head to one side, grabbing the banisters to steady himself as he retched.

Ash straightened when another crash came from the bathroom and he saw the Polaroid camera tilt on its tripod and come to rest in a corner. Square sheets of scattered film lay on the floor before it, along with the capacitance detector. Shadows danced as the ceiling light swung to and fro and Ellen Preddle, alone in the bathroom, flailed her arms in the air, screeching and clawing her hands, grabbing at nothing, eyes wide with madness, lips curled back from her teeth, cheeks wet with tears and with drool.

‘Leave him be!’
she screeched.
‘Don’t you touch him!’

Ash approached the doorway more slowly, his footsteps deliberate, his body tense, his nerves screaming. He stepped over the camcorder and tripod on the floor of the landing, the wire to the monitor downstairs pulled from its socket.