The Ghosts of Sleath (35 page)

Warily, Tom Ginty reached out for the nearest cup and saucer and with a last-second rush clamped down on the jittering cup. It submitted to his pressure, remaining perfectly still under the considerable weight of his palm, and even stayed motionless for a short while when he took his hand away again. Then its tremors resumed, joining the general oscillation of chinaware. The teapot lid clattered against its rim, and the sugar grains hopped in their bowl; even milk in the fine china jug tossed in its own miniature storm.

The silence when they stopped was almost as startling as the clatter they had made when the vibration had begun.

As Ginty spun round to his wife, his mouth open to speak, one of Rosemary’s ornaments, a mock-eighteenth-century figurine, burst through the glass cabinet and shot across the room.

This time Rosemary could not hold back her screech, for the piece missed her head only by inches and glass fragments lodged in her stacked, blonde hair. The figurine smashed into the wall beside the drawn curtains and fell to the floor in pieces. Ginty cringed at his wife’s shrill outburst, then looked in amazement at the broken pane in the cabinet.

After drawing a breath, Rosemary rounded on her husband. ‘You caused this!’ she yelled, and his amazement was replaced
by dismay. ‘You and those …’ she flapped a hand frustratedly at the window ‘… those others!’

‘What’re you talkin about, woman?’ He shook his head in wonder.

‘You know! You bloody well know!’

Ginty’s round face paled, throwing the tiny mauve veins on his cheeks and nose into sharp relief. Oh Lord, could she be right? Those things they had done up at the Hall … Oh Lord, no, it was all nonsense. He’d gone along with it, but he hadn’t
believed
. It was just a sort of village tradition, a covert one, admittedly, but with no real harm to it. He’d always been pissed anyways, he could never remember what had happened the day after, only bits and pieces, parts of the stupid ceremonies, the silly chanting, dressing up in old robes. It was only like the Freemasons, nothing more harmful than that. But how did Rosemary know?
What
did she know?

He covered his face as another ornament flew from the broken section of the cabinet. Rosemary ducked her head against the cushioned arm of the chair, her hands clasped over her hair, as the statuette, two lovers entwined on a loveseat, hit the curtains and broke the window behind.

‘How could you?’
she shrieked as she risked raising her head again.

Why was she blaming him? She couldn’t
know
anything. ‘Don’t be bloody daft!’ he yelled back at her.

Rosemary slid to the floor, afraid of other flying objects. Why did he pretend so much? They had spent the last few hours locked inside their private quarters in the inn because something bad was happening to the village and they both knew it. But he knew more about what was going on than her and he wouldn’t admit it! As soon as that horrible fog had blanked out Sleath, Rosemary had sensed something was terribly wrong. Somehow it was like a warning - no, what was it they called it? A portent! Yes, a portent! - that something nasty was going to happen. And the funny thing was, it had been on its way, this nasty thing that was about to
happen, for a long, long time and it wasn’t only she who was aware.

No staff had turned up for work that day and no customers had set foot in the bar. Later in the afternoon she had tried to phone round the village, and a horrible cold panic had chilled her through and through when she realized the lines were dead. She had become too afraid to step outside and knock on doors. Tom was just as anxious - no, maybe even more so, because he was part of it, he was bloody well part of it! - and had hustled her upstairs and locked the door after them. Even when they’d heard movement outside in the corridor some time ago, he hadn’t let her unlock the door to investigate, and to be honest, she hadn’t been
that
curious. She remembered the night before, the disturbances in their bedroom, and Rosemary gave a shiver.

‘Bastard,’ she said to her husband.

Something tickled her plump stockinged legs and when she glanced down she saw that the rug that covered most of the parlour’s floor was undulating as if a series of breezes were rippling through underneath.

Rosemary hauled herself to her feet and stumbled from one section of the rug to another in an effort to avoid the mysterious rolling waves.

She could feel the thick material trying to rise beneath her feet, her weight too much for it; the undulation merely spread around her, rippling outwards, bypassing furniture to find the rug’s outer edges.

Tom Ginty was rigid, his brain rebutting everything that was happening around him, but his eyes insisting it was all very real. The curtains flapped as if a wind was forcing its way through the broken windowpane. Incongruously, the clock on the mantelpiece began chiming the hour, even though neither hand was close to any numeral. A picture on the wall, a hunt scene print full of red coats, horses and hounds, inexplicably fell to the floor. The stale contents of the teapot began to slurp from its spout, while another cup, this time with its saucer,
toppled off the edge of the table. The parlour’s flower-patterned sofa began to rock to and fro, spilling its cushions onto the rug. The lamp and framed photograph were suddenly swept from the top of the television set.

By now Rosemary had lost her balance and was on her knees once more. It turned out to be fortunate for her, for without warning all the remaining glass in the cabinet and the window opposite exploded outwards, the pieces, large and small, scything across the room from both directions. The curtains were shredded and tossed aside, while statuettes, glassware and ornaments were blown with the shards from the cabinet. Lethal shrapnel met and passed through each other at the room’s centre, which was precisely where the Black Boar Inn’s landlord was standing.

The glass inflicted the worst damage, although the china and porcelain did their share. Ginty’s surprised shriek became a splutter as a glass shard cut into his throat. The wound was not deep enough to kill him instantly and his hands had automatically protected his eyes, but when Rosemary raised her head she saw her husband’s upper body pin-cushioned with tiny, sharp daggers. The ceiling light swung like a pendulum above them and reflections glinted from Ginty’s clothes and flesh, bright one moment, dimmed the next. Hysteria bubbled from Rosemary, while Ginty, himself, remained perfectly still, as if traumatized, pierced hands still raised to eyes, the noises from his throat becoming a gurgling drone.

Pain quickly bit into the shock, causing him to move in a stiff, almost robotic way. He lowered his hands and stared unbelievingly at his wife. Rosemary’s scream had already begun, but now it gushed with renewed vigour, for this grotesque, punctured version of her husband, blood swelling from his wounds, frightened her more than the kinetic disturbances of her household furniture. Of late, intuitions, perhaps even vague but upsetting premonitions, had come to her, as she knew they had to others in the village - oh, no one mentioned them, they kept them to themselves, afraid that they were
alone in those thoughts, that it might be some kind of creeping dementia; but she had seen it in their faces, their troubled eyes, their constrained manner - and the dread had deepened with every passing day. Bad, hidden things were festering like some sneaking disease and now it was here, the cancer had revealed itself. A part of it stood before her with a million glass splinters sticking from its bloated body.

Tom Ginty took a tottering step towards his wife and Rosemary screeched afresh as she scrambled away from him. There had never been an honest love between them, only initially a joint need soon followed by a tolerance of each other, and this was eventually replaced by a mutual loathing, so there was no guilt when she fled from the bleeding monster that was her husband.

The ornate clock, a cheap imitation Bamberg, slipped from the mantel and shattered in the hearth. The mirror that had hung above it cracked into a crazy pattern of fractured glass. The sofa, which had become increasingly violent in its rocking action, finally overturned onto its back.

Rosemary gave voice to and flinched at each new shock as she put the armchair between herself and her advancing husband. She suddenly made a dash for the door, clambering over the back of the up-ended sofa. Glass and broken china crunched under her feet as Tom Ginty tried to follow her.

At the door, she frantically scrabbled at the key. The door opened and Rosemary all but threw herself into the corridor beyond. She almost collapsed when she saw the small shapes skulking in the swaying shadows cast by the unsteady light of the parlour. The rats scurried away, keeping close to the narrow walls, long tails slithering behind them.

Rosemary forced herself to follow them, aware of the mutilated stalker close behind. She had lost a shoe somewhere in the room and could only hobble along, a hand occasionally touching the wall’s wood panelling to help her keep her balance. Shadows before her pitched crazily, confusing her, until darkness suddenly filled most of the corridor; she realized Tom
must be in the doorway, blocking the erratic light. She thought she heard him call out, but it came as an odd, incoherent snuffle and she refused to halt; Rosemary had no sympathy, only fear. An idea flashed into her mind to seek help from the inn’s solitary guest, but she realized she was too uncertain of this man David Ash. There was a coldness about him, an inscrutability; besides, she was not sure if he wasn’t involved in the hauntings, too. A glow from up ahead encouraged her to hobble even faster.

Someone had switched on the lights to the stairs and the floor below, but Rosemary did not begin to descend immediately, despite footsteps behind her. She and Tom had always been aware that there were rats down in the inn’s cellars and occasionally one or two had had to be chased from the kitchen and bars; but never before had the vermin been bold enough to venture further, and certainly not in these numbers. The rats littered the stairway.

Gripping the handrail tightly, Rosemary made herself take the first step, issuing shooing noises as she did so. Most of the creatures fled before her, but one at the bend of the stairs bared its teeth and hissed at her approaching figure. She stamped her foot and, reluctantly, the rat slipped away; she heard the scrabbling of its paws on the wood of the steps.

‘Ro … Rose …’

It was a liquid moan and her head jerked round at its sound. Tom was on the landing above, his body swaying and prickly with protruding glass. He began to lean forward and Rosemary ducked away, losing her footing at the bend in the staircase and plummeting downwards, yelping as she went. Her plump body slid over the worn edges of the steps with painful bumps, and she came to a slithering halt near the bottom. Even before she had regathered her wits she heard stumbling footsteps from above. Something nipped her hand and she recoiled from the rat she had nearly squashed.

Rosemary struggled to her feet, her other shoe gone now, and padded across the floor of the saloon bar, her hands flailing
the air, her wailing screech filling the big room. She made for the open door where tenuous, yellowy fog curled into the bar.

Tom called out once more and she glanced over her shoulder to see him still lumbering after her, walking like a zombie, his whole body stiff, his face, arms and shirt by this time drenched in blood.
Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? What did the rotten shit want from her?

She ran through the open door, out into the High Street, out into the fog. Rosemary pulled up with yet another scream when she saw two bright-glowing spectres emerging from the swirling mists, moving fast, bearing down on her.

Lenny Grover giggled inanely. ‘Can’t see a fuckin thing,’ he remarked to Dennis Crick, who occupied the pick-up’s passenger seat.

‘Well slow down then, prat.’ Crick was grinning himself. He all but pressed his nose against the grimy windscreen. ‘It’s a fucker, this one,’ he remarked, his words slightly slurred from the few jars he and Grover had had earlier at a roadside pub.

‘Chemical gas, if you ask me,’ observed Grover. ‘Look at its colour, an’ jus’ take a whiff.’

‘I already did, an’ didn’t like it.’ Crick screwed up his face to emphasize the point.

‘Been a spill somewhere, take me word for it.’

‘You do talk crap, Len. It’s fog, that’s all. Hold up, it’s gettin thinner already.’

‘Thank Gawd for that.’ Grover giggled again.

His companion hadn’t wanted to drive into the fog they had come upon so suddenly on their way back to Sleath through the country lanes, for it had been impossible to see more than a yard in front of them. But Grover had insisted that they go on, because they had a spanking-new lawn mower in the back of the truck, as well as a smart electric hedge trimmer and a
few outside pot plants, all of which they’d collected on one of their regular ‘round-ups’. At least once a fortnight they cruised the country roads keeping an eye out for unattended garden equipment or anything else left standing in front gardens or drives. The owner of the lawn mower, a still-gleaming Hayter Harrier 56, had taken the grass collector back to his dump or compost heap at the rear of his house, an exercise that probably would take no more than two minutes, giving Grover and Crick the opportunity to lift - literally - the machine from the front lawn. They had already driven past twice and were only waiting for the right moment. It had taken less than thirty seconds to stop the truck, nip out, hoist the mower over the tailgate, and be on their way. They’d had an even bigger laugh when only ten minutes later they saw the electric hedge trimmer lying on top of a hedge, its owner no doubt having popped inside the house for a pee or a drink, and Crick had jumped from the cab, given the trimmer’s long lead a hefty tug to pull the plug from the point in the open garage, then dropped the whole thing over the side of the truck next to the mower. Grover could hardly steer straight he had laughed so much. A few pot plants swiped from windowsills and outside front doors, a pint of milk that turned out to be curdled by the heat, and their afternoon’s work was done. Nice and easy and a lot less risky than creeping through the woods in the middle of the night waiting for a blast from a gamekeeper’s double-barrelled.