The Ghosts of Sleath (33 page)

T
HE RIVER WAS SLUGGISH
, yet it pushed against the millwheel with irresistible force. The blocks that had held the wheel in place for more than half a century began to crumble, slivers breaking off, pieces turning to dust. A high-pitched squealing, as if some creature were in terrible pain, pierced the night as the wheel juddered, then slowly began to turn.

With its first dragging revolution something bloated and white emerged from the river, a putrefied carcass that once might have been human. Rusted chains bound it to the millwheel’s green-slimed slats and from the open pit that should have been a mouth there came a wailing sound, the pitiful lament of a soul in torment.

For once Sam Gunstone did not bother to pull off his dirty boots and leave them on the doorstep. He hurried down the passageway leaving a trail of mud and dust behind him and climbed the stairs, using the banisters to haul himself upwards. Winded though he was, the farmer kept going when he reached the top. Something was wrong. He didn’t know why he was so sure, and never once had doubt dragged his step. The strange-coloured fog enveloping the fields around his farm, a
throwback from the filthy smogs of yesteryear, had initiated his alarm, and for the life of him he couldn’t explain why. The great blank wall of rolling mist that had swept across the fields as he returned from a rabbit-shoot had disorientated him at first, for it was difficult to see more than a yard in front. Its smell was nasty too, and the drifting clouds seemed to cling, making his flesh cold and damp even though it was summer. He had almost been afraid to breathe it in.

Out there in the fields his immediate concern had been for Nell. She was too ill to be left alone for long and if he should get lost in this … He tried to remember if he had shut her bedroom window before he’d left the house. This foul stuff wouldn’t do her poor old lungs any good and she might be sleeping, unaware it was creeping in.

He had dropped the sack of warm dead rabbits he was carrying and waved at the vapours in front of him as though to clear a path. The effort was wasted, of course, but at least he was familiar with the land and as long as he could see the ground beneath his feet he should be all right.

Fortunately, as he progressed the fog became less dense - it was as if there was a thick outer ring to it - and soon he was able to increase his pace. He plodded on, his shotgun, barrel ‘broken’, over one arm, and it wasn’t long before he could make out the first outbuildings of his farm. Quickly the farmhouse itself came into view but, because he was approaching from the front and Nell’s bedroom was at the rear, he could not tell if her window was open. He was being a silly bloody fool, he knew that, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong and Nellie needed him badly. Discarding the shotgun, he had broken into a trot. Oh Lord, don’t let me be too late, he silently prayed.

Through the front door, up the stairs, and then he was on the landing and rushing to the open bedroom door. He gave a brief exclamation when he saw that the window was closed, the fog outside filling the panes, but the cry caught in his throat when he noticed the empty bed.

The sheets were trailed across the floor as though dragged along as Nellie had made her way over to the window. The window … Gunstone stared hard at it.

An orange glow flickered through the fog.

No, not that, he thought, not again, not that dratted spook fire. How could Nellie know, how could she have seen it from her bed? He moved closer to the window and peered into the mists, watching the ill-defined flames as they swelled and danced, their flicker muted by the drifting veils.

‘Nell?’ His nose was almost touching the glass.
‘Nellie?’
He called her name aloud because he could vaguely make out a dim silhouette standing before the dim blaze. The figure was short, bulky, wearing something shapeless that could only be a nightgown.

Gunstone exhaled a long, fearful groan before tearing himself away from the window and lumbering out to the stairs. He descended them awkwardly in his heavy rubber boots, but his pace never slackened. At the bottom he turned towards the back of the house, calling his wife’s name again and again as he ran. The door there was open wide and he hurried through, crossing the yard to the gate in the wild hedge. Unable to see his wife anymore, he came to a halt. Although the fire was reaching high into the sky and flushing the mists with its glow, Nell was nowhere in sight.

He lumbered off again, his breathing laboured, his chest tight with the effort. Where was she, where was his Nell? He let out an anguished yell. ‘Yer silly ol’ fool, why’d yer come out here, why’d yer leave yer nice safe bed? It weren’t genuine, this bloody fire. God ’elp us, it’s only a ghost thing, it don’t really exist!’

But if it wasn’t real, why was he beginning to feel its warmth? Why was the skin on his face prickling with its heat, and why were his eyes beginning to hurt just looking into its glare? Why, if the fire didn’t exist?

The exertion was finally becoming too much for him, and he slowed to an exhausted lope. His chest pounded and he could
hear his own scratchy gasps. He was a tough, hardworking man, had been all his life, but he was getting on now, his stamina wasn’t what it used to be. The lope had become a sluggish, clumsy hobble.

He saw her then. Nellie was lying in a heap on the ground before the fire. She looked almost like a mound in the earth itself.

‘Oh Nell …’ he said. ‘What have yer done, girl…?’

Sam Gunstone dropped to his knees beside his slumped wife, already aware that she was dead: he could
feel
her absence. He touched her shoulder and the warmth he felt was not from her but from the conflagration nearby, from the flames of a fire that did not exist.

He roared then. He confronted the ghostly fire and screamed his outrage and pain.

And when finally he turned his wife’s face towards him, perhaps to kiss her one last time and in a way he had not kissed her for many a year, he saw the horror frozen there in her dead eyes.

Ruth Cauldwell stirred the coffee without realizing she had not put sugar in the mug. She stared at the miniature whirlpool she had created with the spoon, her thoughts drawn into the vortex, swilling round and round, moving faster with the descent, becoming confused, jumbled, disappearing into the dark centre, becoming … nothing.

Her slumped head snapped erect and she dropped the spoon onto the kitchen table. The coffee continued to circle, but the whirlpool flattened and was soon gone; it seemed to Ruth that the thoughts that had been drawn from her were returned in an instant and she gave a faint moan as she leaned back in the chair. Her neck arched and for a moment or two she gazed at the ceiling.

The light bulb above the kitchen table was like an eye
watching her, studying her every move, every expression, every nuance of speech. It spied on her, as did all the light bulbs in the house, but she never let on she knew. She wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t some dumb bitch who didn’t know what was going on. She’d caught her mother watching her out of the corner of her eyes. Even Sarah, her little sister, had been told to spy on her. They wanted to catch Ruth out, they thought they could discover her secret.

But Ruth wouldn’t turn on the lights, even if the house was growing dark. The light bulbs couldn’t see her then, could they? Not if they had no power. They wouldn’t be able to report back, and nor would the mirrors, because she wouldn’t look into them. She hated seeing her own reflection anyway, because then
she
could see the secret in herself so plainly, and if it was so obvious to her, it would soon be obvious to everyone else. They would see her sin, her filth, the horrible dirty things she had done with …

She slumped forward again, elbows cracking against the table’s surface, her head over the coffee cup so that rising steam warmed the chill from her face. Bubbles swirled around the mug’s rim like tiny floating eyes and these, too, were watching her, keeping a check on her while her mother was visiting her father in jail. She knew her mother had given the house instructions to mind her daughter while she was gone, see if she got up to her filth again.

It isn’t my fault, Mummy! It’s him, don’t you see? He makes me
…

Careful. Almost screamed aloud just then. Mustn’t do that, mustn’t let the house know. Nor Sarah.

The sleeve of her blouse had worked loose and she hastily did up the button again, covering the flesh of her wrist. She checked the neck button, reassuring herself that this, too, was secure.

Mustn’t show anything. Mustn’t let Munce see any bare parts. Oh please, don’t let him come again tonight.

Her skin seemed to crawl at the very notion.

Think of something else! Think of poor Daddy. Mummy had said it would help his case if Ruth agreed that Danny Marsh had attacked her out there in the woods. Why was she being such a daft, obstinate girl by denying what had happened? The marks were all over her body, and her clothes had been torn when she had staggered home that day. Just tell the police and Daddy’s lawyer the truth so that Daddy wouldn’t be charged with murder. He might not even be convicted of manslaughter if a jury knew how horribly she’d been attacked. All through the day Ruth’s mother had persisted, never giving her a moment’s peace. And at night, in the quietness of her own bedroom, when Ruth was alone …

She shuddered, the spasm jolting her from tip to toe. She didn’t want to think about that …

Her sister’s voice wafted down the corridor from her room, the song off-key as usual, but Sarah’s enthusiasm undiminished. The sound almost brought a smile to Ruth’s lips. Sarah didn’t understand any of what was going on. She was lost in her own innocent world of dollies and Disney. She was sure the policemen would let Daddy go as soon as Ruth told them about the silly boy who had tried to kiss and cuddle her.

Ruth stole a surreptitious glance at the ceiling light again. You can’t see
inside
me. No one can. Not you, not Mummy, not Daddy. And you couldn’t see
him
, either, you couldn’t see
Munce
. If you could, then you’d let Mummy and Daddy know, and then they’d understand, they’d know the secret, they’d know what he does …

She hunched her shoulders even more and clasped her hands under her nose, thumbs pressing against her lips. A wisp of white steam rose from the coffee. The singing from her sister’s bedroom stopped and the house became very quiet.

How shadowy it was in the kitchen. And how gloomy outside. The windowpanes were no longer clear; they looked as if they had been smeared a dirty grey-yellow colour. She ought to turn on the lights now. They couldn’t really see her, that was only in her own imagination. Honestly, she was aware of that; but
it made no difference. She supposed it was like being hypnotized: a person could be conscious of their ridiculous actions, yet unable to change them; in a trance they seemed entirely natural. That’s how she felt. She knew perfectly well that the light bulbs were not spies, but she could not stop her mind from telling her they were and then acting accordingly. It was the same with Joseph Munce. She couldn’t possibly have met him in the woods the other day, because he was dead, and he couldn’t visit her at night to touch her, feel her, do those
filthy
things …

Ruth laughed, a nervous cackle brought about by both embarrassment and fear. It was only a short laugh.

The coffee was still hot, but she forced herself to take a sip. The pain was good for her. She sipped again, welcoming the burn.
That
was reality, she told herself. Sharp, unpleasant, but
fact
. The coffee was hot so it burnt her lips. No dispute, no deception, no mind games. The light bulb was a light bulb, nothing more than that; the mirrors reflected images, they didn’t make x-rays of your secret self.

Munce was dead, he could
never
come back.

Munce was dead,
he could never come back
.

Munce was dead, he could never come back
.

Then why was he here at this moment?

Why was that familiar coldness shrinking her skin?

What was that shuffling she could hear through the partly open kitchen door?

What was that stink if it wasn’t body corruption?

What was that phlegmy murmuring if it wasn’t from a rotted throat?

What were all those things if Munce wasn’t outside in the passage?

Ruth swivelled slowly in the chair so that she could see the gap in the door. The shuffling was coming closer. Although it was dark, something even darker filled the opening. Something was waiting there. Something was watching her.

Ruth opened her mouth to scream even though she was
aware that no scream would come. It never did. It always stayed locked inside her chest whenever he came to her. He even challenged her to cry out, but it was never ever any good - her throat was paralysed.

Wide-eyed, Ruth stared at the narrow shadow, one hand gripping the back of the chair, her body shaking, but so imperceptibly that an onlooker might have thought she was perfectly still. She wanted to plead; no sound came. She wanted to flee; she could not move. She wanted to kill; he was already dead.

But there was an answer to all this, there was a way of preventing his vile, putrid hands touching her body. Or at least, there was a way she could prevent herself from feeling his touch. She cast her gaze around the kitchen, looking for a knife. Her wrists first, and then her throat. It would be easy. And this way no one would ever know how she had allowed Munce to touch her so. Or how his touch had aroused her.

No knife was in view, but she knew where they were kept. Her attention went back to the open door.

The shadow was gone.

But she heard the shuffling once more.

He was going away.
Munce was leaving her
.

Her body sagged. She wanted to weep, she wanted to sink to the floor and thank God for this mercy. She listened, wanting to be certain. She could still hear the movement, but it was definitely receding.