The Spectral Book of Horror Stories (14 page)

TO FINDE A TREASURE HIDDE IN A FIELD

There then followed instructions which I may not repeate but which I took down with the greatest care, then, hiding my booke once more in the belfry I hurried down into the church. There I founde my friend the Rev’d Mr Bowles who looked upon me with much curiosity.

“Will you tarry with me and take a cup of sack?” said he. But I would not. “Whither away so fast?” said he, and I would not answer but straightway went out of the church and into the night.

The next morning I found myself in a field near Bartonstone on the margins of Sir Everard Cutbirth’s land. At the very rising of the sunne, at the cold margins of the day I made certain conjurations and uttered certain words I dare not mention at which there rose out of the grounde like a black mist a very dark figure who in silence beckoned me forward.

I could not see if it were man or woman, for the thing had only thin legs, as ‘twere of smoke and the clothes were ragged and vaporous. I could not see the face which was veiled and turned from me. The creature led me towards a certain ancient oak in the woods of Sir Everard’s park, then with insisting gestures to the ground it bade me dig in a certain place beneathe the oak. I had brought with me my pick and spade and so I dug until I found a box of ox hide studded with brasse. This I broke open with ease and founde therein the bones of a little child wrapped in a white lace robe all stained with the amber colour of ancient bloud and beneath this a greate store of jewels and gold coins. Then I looked up from my amazement at this sight to see the figure that had led me to the treasure, and within the blackness and smoke I saw the face of Mother Durden as I had last seen her in the hour of her immolation. Her face was all black and pumpled with blisterings and burnings and the eyes burned with a hidden fire.

Yet had I no time to wonder in terrour at this sight, for down the field and towards the oak came riding a man with a deer hound gambolling at his side and he was shouting out loud when he saw me as if I were any common trespasser. Then the black figure that was Mother Durden’s hellish spirit on a sudden made a rush towards the rider, so that his horse reared up and he himself fell to the ground. Then I, without looking further, took the box of treasure and ran from the scene.

I later discovered that this rider was no less than Sir Everard Cutbirth and that he had broken his neck in a fall from his horse and died thereof. But I now found myself a rich man, though I showed caution and stelthe in display and disbursement. I bought myself a fine house in the city and gowns trimmed with furre, and I also gave almes to the poore and a gift to the cathedrall where I yet kept to my post. But for all that I was modest, yet open handed towards lesser folk, yet still the murmurings against me would not cease. They said that my new founde wealth was from consorting with the Devill, though I told any who would listen that it was a legacy, but still I was dogged and found that the envy of my genius was compounded by envy at my wealth. So may a man never know content for if he sinks low he is despised and if he rises above, then is green-eyed jealousie ever at his heels.

I took to being alone, except when at the cathedrall in my work. If I went abroad it was at night, and then often wearing Solomon’s ring to afford me protection from prying eyes. It seemed often as if I walked in a city of the dead when I did so and many a time I have glimpsed a shadow that looked like someone long dead, lurking in the grey streets of evening. My life became a half of what it was and my riches seemed to me but ashes, for the pleasures that they promised gave me no delight, neither wine, nor fine fabrics nor the purchased pleasures of the flesh.

And now I am grown sick so that I know death is near, and I must face myself and my deeds. Several nights ago, though weak, I took my walk abroad at night through dark and desert streets in Morchester. Though black and moonless yet methought I could see my way as through a thin grey mist, and all the town was soft and uncertain as if the very stones were made of dreams and smoke. The world was silent but for the faint sound of steps hurrying behind me. Once I turned and saw a creature like black smoke at the end of the street and it was the figure of Mother Durden who had guided me to the treasure and paved my way to Hell itself. The next night she was there also but nearer to me, so that now I dare not venture abroad even in daylight. I lie here in my chamber and write and look for some way to make myself right with my God before the hour of my judgement. Yet I have no hope of Paradise. Hell beckons and still I struggle. My candle gutters and I order fresh ones. Bring up the light, before the darkness comes to me. I am alone. Christ Jesu deliver me hence. Have mercy. Begone from my chamber, foule witch!

Seeke not to finde by what device

Men climb from Hell to Paradise

Nor understand why Satann Fell

From starrie Paradise to Hell

For thou art damn’d, if thou dost looke

To find it in the Divill’s Booke

EASTMOUTH

Alison Moore

Sonia stands on the slabs of the promenade, looking out across the pebbly beach. It is like so many of the seaside resorts from her childhood. She remembers one whose tarred pebbles left their sticky blackness on her bare feet and legs and the seat of her swimsuit. She had to be scrubbed red raw in the bath at the B&B. Her hands are wrapped around the railings, whose old paint is flaking off. When she lets go, her palms will smell of rust.

The visibility is poor. She can’t see land beyond Eastmouth.

“I’ve missed the sound of the gulls,” says Peter, watching them circling overhead.

He says this, thinks Sonia, as if he has not heard them for years, but during the time they’ve been at university, he got the train home most weekends. Sonia does not think she would have missed the gulls. She is used to the Midlands and to city life.

She lets go of the railings and they walk on down the promenade. Sonia, in a thin, brightly coloured jacket, has dressed for warmer weather. Shivering, she huddles into herself. “Let’s get you home,” says Peter. For the last half hour of their journey, while the train was pulling in and all the way from the station he’s been saying things like that: “We’re almost home,” and, “Won’t it be nice to be home?” as if this were her home too. Their suitcases, pulled on wheels behind them, are noisy on the crooked slabs. “They’ll know we’re here,” says Peter.

“Who will?” asks Sonia.

“Everyone,” says Peter.

Sonia, looking around, sees a lone figure in the bay window of a retirement home, and a woman in a transparent mac sitting on a bench in a shelter. Peter nods at the woman as they pass.

“It’s quiet,” says Sonia.

“It’s quiet most of the year,” says Peter.

He points out a modernist, pre-war building just ahead of them. “I’ve always loved coming to see the shows,” he says. “My all-time favourite act is Cannon and Ball.” Reaching this seafront pavilion, they stop to look at the posters. “Look,” says Peter, “Cannon and Ball.” He is beaming, cheerful when he says, “Nothing changes.”

#

Peter lets them into the house with a key that he wears on a chain around his neck. His mother comes into the hallway with her arms wide open, saying to Sonia as much as to Peter, “You’re home!” Taking Sonia’s jacket, looking at its bright colours, she says to Sonia, “Blue and green should never be seen!” and then she puts the jacket away.

As they sit down to dinner, Peter’s mother says, “Sonia, what were you planning to do with your summer?”

“I’ve applied for a job up north,” says Sonia. “I had the interview yesterday, and I think it went well. I should hear tomorrow whether or not I’ve got it. I gave them this number—Peter said that was all right. If I get the job, I’ll save up for a while and then I want to go to Las Vegas.” She mentions pictures she’s seen of the place, all the lights.

“If you like that sort of thing,” says Peter’s father, “you should take an evening stroll along our prom. You’ll see it all lit up.” He chews his food for a while before saying, “It’s a lot hotter there, though. It wouldn’t suit me. We stick to England, the south coast.”

A gust rattles the window and Sonia turns to see the wind stripping the last of the leaves from a potted shrub in the backyard.

“Look,” says Peter’s father, “the sun’s coming out for you,” and he nods towards a patch of sunlight the colour of weak urine on a whitewashed, breeze-block wall.

Peter’s mother opens the wine and says to Sonia, “You’ll be needing this.” Sonia supposes she is referring to their long train journey, or perhaps the cold weather; it isn’t clear.

#

“It’s nice to have you home,” says Peter’s mother, later, when they are clearing the table.

“I think Peter’s glad to be home,” says Sonia.

“And what about you?”

“I don’t live here,” says Sonia. She is surprised that Peter’s mother does not know this.

“You didn’t grow up here,” agrees Peter’s mother. Opening the back door, she throws the scraps into the yard and the seagulls appear out of nowhere, descending instantly, filling the yard with their shrieks. “Our home is your home,” she says, as she closes the door, “but I do remember what it’s like to be young and independent. There are lots of empty flats around here and they always need people at the pavilion. The place is crying out for young blood.”

“I wasn’t planning on staying long,” says Sonia.

Peter’s mother nods. She looks around the kitchen and says, “Well, I think that will do. I’ll go and change the sheets on your bed.”

#

Their bags are side by side in the corner of Peter’s bedroom. Hers has a sticker on the side saying
I ♥ Las Vegas
, even though she has never been there. His has a label giving his name—Peter Webster—and his home address, his parents’ address, so that it can’t get lost.

They go to bed early but Sonia lies awake in the darkness, in between the cold wall and Peter, who is fast asleep. She finally drops off in the early hours before being woken at dawn by what she thinks is the sound of babies crying, but it is only the gulls. She finds the noise depressing.

#

Sonia, in the bathroom, doing up the belt of her jeans, can hear Peter’s mother talking on the phone at the bottom of the stairs. “No,” she is saying, “I don’t want it. I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t call here again.” Sonia checks her face in the mirror before coming out, finding Peter’s mother on the landing now, outside the bathroom door. “All right, dear?” says Peter’s mother. “Come down to breakfast. I’ve made pancakes with syrup, just like they have in America!”

Sonia stays in all day. At the end of the afternoon, at ten to five, she phones the company she had hoped would call to offer her a job. She speaks to a receptionist who says, “Please hold.” Then she speaks to a secretary who tells her that the job has been offered to someone else. The secretary sounds impatient and terminates the conversation as soon as she can. Sonia redials—she has some questions to ask—but no one picks up; they’ve all gone home.

When Sonia goes up to bed that night, she finds that the sticker on her bag has been doctored with a permanent marker. ‘Las’ has been neatly changed to ‘East’ but ‘Vegas’ required a heavier hand, a thicker line.
I ♥ Eastmouth
.

#

The following day is Saturday. After breakfast, Sonia watches the dead-eyed gulls gathering on the wall of the yard. They grab at the scraps Peter’s mother puts out, and if the door is not kept closed they will come inside, wanting the cat food, taking more than they have been given.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” says Sonia.

“I’ll come with you,” says Peter, beginning to get to his feet.

“I’d rather go on my own,” says Sonia. Mr and Mrs Webster stop what they are doing and look at her. They watch her as she leaves the room.

She puts on her shoes and looks for her jacket but she can’t find it. She asks Peter’s mother if she’s seen it and Peter’s mother says, “I’m washing it. Wear mine.” She takes down a heavy beige coat and helps Sonia into it. “Yours was too thin anyway,” says Peter’s mother. “You’ll need something warmer now you’re here.”

Sonia walks a mile along the promenade before coming to a stop, leaning on the railings and looking out to sea, watching a yellow helicopter that is circling in the distance. As a child, she used to wave to rescue helicopters even though she knew they weren’t really looking for her; it was just for fun or for practice. She raises her hands now and waves, scissoring her arms above her head, like semaphore, as if she were someone in a high-vis jacket on a runway, although she does not know semaphore; she does not know how to say ‘stop’. The helicopter turns away and leaves.

“Sonia.”

She turns around and finds Peter’s parents standing behind her.

“We thought we’d walk with you,” says Peter’s mother. “What a good idea, a little leg stretch.”

They walk along with her, nodding to the woman in the transparent mac as they pass the shelter.

When they reach the end of the promenade, Peter’s father says, “We should turn back,” and as they walk Sonia home again they tell her about the evening’s entertainment: a show at the pavilion and dinner at the Grand.

“I’ve booked you a table,” says Peter’s father. “It’s a fine place. It’s where I proposed to Peter’s mother. We go there every year for our anniversary.”

“Have the seafood platter,” says Peter’s mother.

#

Peter, wearing one of his father’s ties, walks Sonia along the blustery promenade. The seafront is all lit up with light bulbs strung between the lampposts. “See?” says Peter. “Who needs Las Vegas?” At the pavilion, they see an Elvis. Sonia finds him disappointing. When the show is over, they go on to the Grand.