The Ghosts of Sleath (41 page)

She cried out again, a kind of agonized yelp.

He pushed himself up onto one knee, his hand still reaching towards her.

This time she shrieked, her legs kicking out as if in spasm.

He hurried to her side, half-crawling, half-crouching, and he spoke her name again.

Her scream rang through the night.

‘Grace!’
He tugged at her shoulder, pulling her round to face him. Her body jumped beneath his hand.

Just a few feet away, Phelan was sitting upright, his head turned in their direction.

Grace twisted violently, her cry full of pain.

‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ Ash felt helpless as he knelt beside
her, his hands close to her, but no longer touching, afraid any pressure might cause more pain.

Her arms struck out, hitting his, and she squirmed and flinched, sucking in sharp breaths.
‘David!’
she screamed.
‘David, help me!’

He held her shoulder and tried to pull her to him, but she twisted away, her body bending double, her head touching her knees.

Phelan’s shadow, cast by the moon, fell over them and he, too, tried to hold her. Clouds reeled across the light and they were in darkness once more; but still they heard her moans and felt her writhing. Ash clung to her, desperate to help, afraid she would hurt herself in her frenzy.

‘What’s happening to her?’
he demanded of the Irishman, as if he surely must have the answer.

‘I thought she’d be safe out here.’ There was grief in his words, grief and pity. And his own desperation. ‘I thought we’d got her away in time. Lord Jesus, don’t let this be so!’

Her screams had become unremitting and they tore through Ash’s senses. He had to do something, he had to help her, he couldn’t let her suffer this way. He tried to lift her, his hands trembling with panic, but she wrenched herself away from him, falling back onto the stone and lying there, her body arched, her fingers curled into claws, gripping the night itself.

Lightning blazed, a fitful coruscation that washed everything in its glaring, sterile light. He was oblivious to the thunder that so quickly followed, for in those brief moments of utter illumination he was aware only of the wounds of her open flesh and saw only the peeling of her skin, the delicate tissue strips ripped from her face, from her neck, from her breasts, and heard only her screams, her pleadings, the calling of his name.

Darkness once more, but the sight had fused into his brain. He pressed his hands against her face as if to hold the skin there, to prevent its tearing, and he felt the slivers, light and flimsy, brushing past his own flesh, his efforts useless against the unseen hands that ripped her body. She beat at him, as
though he were the assailant, and screamed her suffering, her terror, and she squirmed beneath him, trying to rise, perhaps to run and hide, to escape this ruthless mutilation.

A prayer was being said, an incantation repeated over and over, and he knew it was the Irishman imploring his God for help. But there was no help. Even when Ash lay over her, shielding her body with his own, the scaling continued, and he knew -
oh, dear God, he knew
- it would not stop until she was rendered as naked as Beardsrnore, exposed and bloodied, her flesh raw, peeled, her body scarcely human. His screams joined hers, and when the moon showed through again, his tears blurred the sight of her.

He tried to keep her there, but her agony was too intense and it had made her too strong. She slid from beneath him, one of her flailing arms catching the bridge of his nose, stunning him and knocking him aside so that for a few precious moments he lay helpless on the terrace. She stood over him, hands to her face, her head raised as if to howl at the moon, and he thought it was the rags of her clothing that fluttered in the night breeze, but realized instantly that she was almost naked and that it was her skin that flapped and fell away in rags.

Phelan, who knew she was beyond the help of any mortal, remained kneeling in prayer.

Then she was gone. She had returned to Lockwood Hall.

‘David, no!’

Phelan tried to grab Ash as he started after her, but the investigator easily pushed him away. Ash plunged through the doorway.

The Irishman was old, and he was wearied, but he was still fast; he followed Ash close behind.

Lightning deluged the great hall and both men saw Grace standing quite still among the debris. She appeared to be frozen there, her raised arms glistening in the light, her breasts bloody and raw protrusions, her eyes white against the dark, jellied meat of her skinless face. Her hair flew out as if charged, and mists gathered round her, swirling and weaving in some mystic
dance. There was a cold silence within the old, broken walls now - no whispers, cries, music or crashing of masonry - and Grace no longer screamed. But her scoured lips moved and she seemed to be beseeching something beyond their vision.

This time the thunder was distant from the lightning and when it came the ruin’s very foundations shook. Ash was scrambling over the rubble to reach Grace when dislodged brickwork showered down on him, striking his head and shoulders so that he staggered backwards, his senses once again reeling.

The deep rumbling that followed the thunder was more ominous than anything that had gone before, and Phelan looked up instinctively to see that one massive section of wall was bending inwards, the momentum at its top, at the very roof itself, increasing. He only caught a quick glimpse, for the half-moon was soon obscured, but the rumbling increased to a great roar …

With a warning cry, he reached for Ash and pulled him back over the debris. The injured man’s resistance was weak, for he was dazed, ready to collapse, and as Phelan dragged him back he shouted at him, telling him that they could not help the girl, that she was lost to them, but her pain and her torment would soon be over.

The noise increased, a great rending of wood and stone, a shrieking that overwhelmed all sounds and all senses, and the two men stumbled back, almost falling through the doorway, Phelan never easing his grip on Ash, nor allowing him to falter. They lurched down the steps, and
still
Phelan would not let Ash slump. He dragged, shoved, coaxed the investigator away from the crumbling building and only when they were across the clearing did he release his grip.

Ash turned, his hands to his temples, and as he sank to his knees on the mist-covered track he saw the final collapse of Lockwood Hall, enormous clouds billowing out, its mighty roar a worthy match for the thunder that pounded the night.

His consciousness ebbed, then stole away from him. He slipped to the ground, the soft grass welcoming his battered body.

The first raindrops dampened his cheek.

T
INY EXPLOSIONS RUPTURED
the river’s surface as the dark, mountainous clouds released their load. The fog was driven off by the downpour, its mists retreating through the village, dispersing, thinning, becoming nothing.

The millwheel groaned to a halt, its cargo of putrid flesh left beneath the river to dissolve there, to fade to the nothingness it really was. Old wood creaked inside the millhouse and cogs settled with moaning sighs. All became quiet once more.

The inferno was suddenly gone.

Its light no longer brightened Sam Gunstone’s face as he cradled his wife’s dead body, and when he looked up he saw that the field was dark and empty. He wondered if the rain had doused not the fire, but the vision itself.

He bowed his head, murmuring a prayer, and when he stooped to kiss his wife’s forehead and lightning seared everything white, he noticed that the horror that had been frozen in her gaze was gone too. There was no expression at all, and he felt that was good.

Nell had found her peace.

Ruth stood in the bedroom doorway, the knife poised in the air. Her sister was on the narrow bed, her legs drawn up, her back against the wall. She clutched her dolly, Sally Rags, to her chest, as if it, too, were in jeopardy. Sarah’s eyes were wide with terror.

Munce - this thing that
was
the dead Joseph Munce - was at the foot of the bed, watching Sarah, its back to Ruth. It moved slowly at Ruth’s presence, from the waist only, swinging its shoulders round, turning its leprous head towards her, and it grinned - that sly,
dirty
grin that she knew so well. Its elbows were tucked into its sides, hands out of view, clutching at the mutilation of its groin.

Munce sniggered, and she was enraged by its familiar guttural sound. Shamed, too, for once, many years ago, she had laughed with it. Ruth ran at the repulsive figure but, even as she plunged the knife, Munce was disappearing, fading fast like Alice’s Cheshire cat, the legs, then the torso, the head - and its grin - last.

The knife blade struck empty air and Ruth, startled at first, began to laugh. And began to cry.

Sarah leapt from the bed, Sally Rags discarded, and threw herself into her sister’s arms. The knife fell to the floor.

They hugged each other, and after a while Ruth told Sarah to hush, the creature had only been a nightmare and, like any bad dream, it had gone away. It would never, she assured her little sister, it would never
ever
come back again. And though Ruth cried as she spoke, she was smiling too.

When she reached the bathroom, he was holding Simon beneath the water, one hand gripping the boy’s hair, the other on his frail, naked shoulder. Simon was struggling, kicking out, grasping the edges of the bath, fighting for a life that was already lost. And George was laughing while he pushed, unable to kill something that was already dead, but his black soul enjoying the parody of it all, relishing the misery it wrought.

Ellen screamed at George to stop, but even as she did so, small flames lapped around his ankles, quickly rising, claiming his legs, roaring up his back. Only when the fire reached his shoulders and enveloped his head did he relinquish his hold and crash back against the bathroom wall. He wheeled about inside the peculiarly vapid flames and his screams had a hollowness to them, sounding as if they came from a long way off.

Simon had risen from the water, his skinny arms wrapped around himself, his pale, wet body shivering.

Ellen could just make out her husband’s dim form inside the inferno as he backed into the bathroom’s small window, and she ran forward, giving it a push, her hands and arms not even scorched - it was like dipping into a deep-freeze. George went straight through the glass, his body folding to accommodate the small windowframe. He disappeared into the night and when she looked there was nothing to see on the ground below. The path was wet with rain and trails of thin fog straggled across it; but of George, burning or otherwise, there was no sign.

And when she drew her head back inside the broken window, Simon had vanished too. But she didn’t mind. She had the feeling - so strong inside her that it had to be right - that her son’s soul had finally been laid to rest.

And George had gone back to his hell.

The breeze and the rain continued to disperse the fog, its threads and drifts roaming across the village green, some of the vapours curling around the whipping post, where the blood had ceased its flow. It wasn’t long before the storm had washed away the final dregs of mists, and with it, its malodour; and it wasn’t long before the rain had cleansed the bloodstains from the grass and from their spread across the road.

The rain had also roused Rosemary Ginty. It fell on her crippled body, a new torment for her.

She tried to pick herself up, but couldn’t: something was broken inside her and it hurt, it hurt like bloody hell. And something was wrong with one of her legs, too: she couldn’t move it, it wouldn’t bend. And her head … oh, how her bloody head ached.

She lay there for quite some time before managing to turn herself over onto her stomach, by that time sick of the rain pounding her eyes. When lightning lit up the High Street she saw something odd poking out of the Black Boar Inn over the road. It looked like a truck or a lorry. Now who would do a stupid thing like that? And where was Tom? Why wasn’t he out here helping her? Well she would have a few words to say to him when she got back inside.

Rosemary began to crawl, furious with Tom and deeply annoyed at the rain that was doing its best to ruin her hair.

Crick looked up just once, and wished he hadn’t: it hurt too much. He let his head loll sideways and again wished he hadn’t: the figure lying close by with its face smashed in and its fat belly and arms porcupined by shiny bits was not a pleasant sight.

At least the voices had left him in peace. Couldn’t understand it: the bar was empty - apart from the fucking truck sticking through the front door - but for a while all he could hear was the gabble of voices. Fuck ’em. And fuck Lenny, whose fault this was.

Crick closed his eyes and went back to sleep, a sleep he would never wake from.

The broken ice on the pond melted under the rain and for some time its murky waters stirred and eddied. Eventually the surface settled, only rainfall disturbing it. Occasionally, though, a flurry of bubbles broke through from below, but soon even they stopped.

Maddy reached the door, but Gaffer had not accompanied her. The dog cowered behind the armchair back in the sitting room, white showing around the edges of its bulging, fearful eyes. Small whimpers came from deep inside Gaffer’s throat.

The footsteps on the path outside had stopped. Maddy knew he was waiting there, waiting for her to open the door.

‘It’s all right, Jack, I’m here,’ she called out as she reached for the bolt at the top of the door. Jack insisted she keep it locked and bolted when he was away - never knew who might come knocking these days, he always told her.

Just for a second or two her fingertips lingered on the bolt’s cold metal. A quiet sob escaped her. I know it’s you, Jack, she said in her mind. I know you’ve come back to me. It is all right, isn’t it? This is the proper thing? She could hear the rain drumming on the stone path.

Maddy shot back the bolt and lifted the latch. She threw open the door.

Lightning flared, momentarily dazzling her. And when the distant rumble of thunder came and she had blinked several times, she saw the path was empty.

Maddy stood in the doorway for a long time that night, the rain blowing in to soak her clothes, the breeze ruffling her loose, grey hair. She watched the path. She listened for footsteps.

But her husband never did return.