Haunted (26 page)

His chest heaved with what could be nothing other than a terrified wail; his blows against the door became slower, less hopeful. He wanted to run from there, to escape before the approaching figure reached him. Yet he suddenly felt so languid, so weary, a dread-filled heaviness sinking through his limbs, dragging at his strength. He knew, without looking, that she had reached the first step. His scream was stifled within his breast. He heard the scraping of a shoe against stone.

He almost lost his balance as the door before him yawned inwards.

There was nothing welcoming in Nanny Tess’ demeanour; she grimaced, began to say something. But he had already pushed past her before any words could form, and had slammed the door behind him so that the aunt could only stand back in surprise, whatever she had meant to say already forgotten.

Trembling so violently that his fingers scrabbled against the lock, Ash turned the key, the metallic
clunk
satisfying but not reassuring enough. He crouched to shoot the bolt into its floor socket, repeating the process on the neighbouring side. He rose and leaned his back against the barrier as if to add weight.

Ash could not help the low moan that escaped him when he saw the changed condition of Edbrook.

The lights were even dimmer than before, like grey candle-glows, as though they, too, were part of the degenerative process; but they were strong enough to reveal the grime on the ceilings and walls, the dust-filled cobwebs, the mould that spread from corners and recesses, the long, dark cracks in the wood panelling. Strips of tattered wallpaper hung loose above the oak panels, and scraps that might have been fallen plaster from the ceiling littered the hall floor. And all-pervading was the pungency of decay, the redolent perfume of emptiness.

Robert and Simon Mariell watched him from the stairs.

His speechlessness at last broke. ‘For God’s sake –
Christina
!’

The two brothers smiled.

There came a quiet tapping from behind him.

Ash spun around as if he had been touched; he stepped away from the threshold.

The tapping stopped.

He cried out when the double-door was shaken in its frame by thunderous, powerful blows. The barrier strained against its hinges, the wood seeming to bow inwards, as though something were pressing from the other side; small jagged cracks appeared on the surface, joining to form a hairline pattern.

Ash slowly backed away, his eyes riveted to the bulging wood, its creaking groans abnormally loud.

Abruptly the pressure from without ceased. There was total silence.

Until Robert said from the stairway: ‘Please open the door, Nanny.’

To Ash’s horror, the Mariells’ aunt went forward and turned the key in the lock.

‘
No, don’t let her in!
’ he implored.

Nanny Tess hesitated. She looked at Ash uncertainly, then at her nephew. Robert, still smiling benignly, gave a single nod of his head. Nanny Tess reached down to release the bolt.

With a movement that was surprising in its swiftness, she flung open one side of the double-door. A shadowy figure stood outside.

Ash felt something drain from him, a palpable loss, as if any warmth in his veins and tissue had been syphoned away, leaving his body leaden and cold. When he fled, it was awkwardly, his feet barely lifting from the floor. The stairs were mountainous, his attempt to climb them ponderous.

Robert continued to smile as Ash pushed by him. Simon, hands tucked nonchalantly into trouser pockets, sniggered.

Ash used the rail to draw himself upwards. Now that he had consciously forced himself into flight, his fear in some self-preserving way began to overwhelm the stupefying dread so that strength, enfeebled though it was, gradually returned and his efforts gained momentum. He stumbled near the top, but kept going, using hands and knees to drag himself forward, scrabbling over the last step, rising to stagger down the darkened corridor towards the bedroom they had given him.

The door was open and once inside he slammed it shut, quickly locking it. He leaned his soaked forehead against the painted wood and tried to control his rapid breathing so that he could listen for noises outside. He was certain he could hear approaching footsteps.

His eyes closed for a moment as if in supplication.

He shoved himself away from the door and tugged at the hefty chest of drawers nearby, sliding it over, using sideways to and fro movements to make the journey easier, jamming the chest against the door as a barricade, creating a defence that he hoped would be impossible for anyone outside to get through. He slapped down the light switch and the bulb in the centre of the room flickered and wavered beneath its shade before settling to a dim glow.

He trod backwards from the door, his gaze never leaving it, retreating to the other side of the room; as far away from the barricade as possible.

Soon there was the familiar tapping from outside.

His name was whispered.

‘
Leave me alone!
’ he shouted, hysteria close enough to raise the pitch of his voice. ‘
Just leave me alone!
’

His cry became plaintive, almost a moan, as he sank miserably into the armchair opposite the door.

‘Just leave me alone . . .’

The whispering stopped.

Nothing stirred in the house called Edbrook.

No footsteps along the dingy corridors and hallways; no movement inside dusty rooms save for the scratchy scurryings of vermin who nestled in the sagging underbellies of sofas, or the sluggish tottering of spiders drugged by the late season’s climate; no inner breeze nudged curtains or drapes. The stone walls held their peace. The dawn hung colourlessly against windows.

In an upstairs room a man slept fretfully in an armchair facing a barricaded door.

David Ash still wore his rumpled overcoat, its collar turned up around his neck. His bearded chin sagged against his chest. His face was sallow in the dim light, features heavy with fatigue, his brow troubled by the images of his sleep in which . . .

. . . the boy wakes and listens to the whispered call. ‘David . . .’

He leaves the bedroom, drawn by the gentle voice and descends the stairs to the candlelit place below. A coffin stands at the far end of the long room.

The boy approaches, his eyes enlarged and fear-stricken. He peers down into the silk-lined casket.

The girl who lies there is not his sister.

She is older, and she is beautiful in death.

Her eyes open.

She smiles.

The smile corrupts to a grin.

Christina reaches as if to embrace him.

She whispers:

‘David . . .’

Ash awoke with a choked cry, the startled jerk of his body upsetting the empty vodka bottle by his foot. He looked around as if mystified by his surroundings. Vapid light from the window integrated drearily with the ceiling light so that there was an oddness to the room, a lack of depth to its shadings, a neutrality to its brighter tones. He blinked to ease the soreness of his eyes, knowing without seeing that they were red-rimmed; he felt the puffiness of their lids. Ash swallowed, throat dry, running his fingers through the tangle of his hair as he did so.

His hand stopped when he recalled the dream; and he moaned faintly when he saw the heavy chest of drawers rammed against the bedroom door, remembering why it was there.

Ash held his breath, forcing himself to listen, his hands quivering slightly on the arms of the chair. There was only silence from outside and somehow he sensed that peculiar vacuity extended beyond the corridor: the whole house was quiet as if, like him, it was holding its breath.

He lurched from the seat and went to the barricade, leaning on the chest for support, listening further, waiting for any shift in atmosphere, the slightest bump or scuffle from outside. There was nothing.

He walked unsteadily back to the window, his coordination slow in returning, senses not yet fully alert, and looked out at the gardens below. A fine drizzle of rain was sending up a thin mist from the ground so that the statues out there were vague, ill-defined forms.

Resolution came to Ash as the dulling effects of his troubled sleep gradually dispersed.

Taking the holdall from the wardrobe, he began throwing clothing and other personal items into it, not bothering with neatness, bundling them in haphazardly, pushing everything tight to make room, his efforts gaining momentum, becoming a rush. He threw in his notes and diagrams from the small bureau he’d used as a desk, then zipped up the bag, muttering when loose clothing snagged the catch, but unwilling to spend time disengaging it. He stood on tiptoe to reach the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and laid it open on the bed. He studied its emptiness for a few moments, knowing he would have to retrieve the equipment from various parts of the house.

Ash looked over at the door again.

Cautiously he went to the chest of drawers and gripped its edges. Summoning up his strength, he heaved it aside. One hand still on top of the chest to steady himself, Ash nervously regarded the key in the lock of the door. He had to force himself to turn it. And then had to force himself to open the door.

Nanny Tess was standing outside.

‘Jesus—’ he said almost as a breath.

She stepped into the light, her face distraught, seeming more aged, her features more deeply lined. There was a pallid greyness to her skin, the lack of colour that sometimes comes with long illness.

Her voice was urgent, but kept low, as if she were afraid that others might hear. ‘You must leave immediately. You must go right away, Mr Ash.’

‘Where are they?’ he asked her, his own voice hushed.

‘Never mind that.’ It was almost a reprimand. ‘Don’t ask any questions of me, just leave this house now. It’s no longer a game – it’s become more than that. Something has happened that’s changed everything. They’re angry with you, Mr Ash. Terribly angry.’

She leaned back to glance out the door, as though to make sure the corridor was still empty. She bent towards him again, her manner conspiratorial. ‘There’s an early morning train that stops at the village station to deliver mail. You’ve got time to catch it if you hurry.’

Ash needed no further bidding. He returned to the bed to collect the holdall and his eyes briefly lingered on the open suitcase. He turned away, leaving it lying there; somehow the equipment, the very tools of his trade, no longer seemed important.

Gripping the holdall, he made for the door and stopped in surprise when he discovered the old lady had gone. He went out into the corridor. And became very still.

The dog was watching him from the far end, a bunched, threatening shape.

Ash slowly moved away, treading warily, afraid that any hasty action, any hint of panic, would set the animal on him. Its growl rumbled down the corridor and Ash willed himself to back off smoothly, to do nothing that would excite the dog.

Seeker began to stalk him.

Ash’s grip on the holdall tightened. If the brute charged he would push the bag into those powerful jaws, use it as a shield. What then? How long could he hold the dog off? If he returned to the bedroom he would be trapped. Perhaps he should call out, bring Nanny Tess back to him. She might be able to control Seeker. But then why hadn’t she waited? Was that part of the plan, to lure him from the bedroom and leave him at the mercy of this beast? Christ, were they all crazy in this house?

Seeker kept a measured distance, pacing its prey with matching steps. Two dull pinpoints of light were all that Ash could see of its eyes in the dimness of the corridor; its massive head was tucked close into muscled shoulders so that it seemed a shapeless mass was gliding forward.

Without taking his attention from the trailing beast, Ash knew he was nearing the gallery overlooking the hallway.
Had
he looked he would have caught sight of the figure rising up from the stairway. Only when he heard a peculiarly wheezed chuckle did he glance over his shoulder.

Simon was at the top of the stairs. Although it wasn’t
quite
Simon.

Even in the poor light Ash could discern the deathly paleness of Christina’s brother, almost as though his face and hands had been dusted with fine white powder. And his skin was withered, puckered and blemished in parts as though rotting. Beneath the collar of his open shirt, his neck was discoloured with purple bruising, vivid against his unnatural pallor, and the flesh there was deeply indented, his head tilted awkwardly to one side.