Haunted

  In memory of

  George Goodings – rascal,

  rogue, Dam Buster, and

  my finest friend

  To be haunted

  is to glimpse a truth

  that might best

  be hidden

  Contents

  A dream, a memory

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Edrook

  BROUGHT TO YOU BY KeVkRaY

  A dream, a memory

  A whispered name.

  The boy stirs in his sleep. A pale, vaporous moon lights the room. Shadows are deep.

  He twists his head, turning towards the window so that his face becomes a soft mask, unblemished, colourless. But the boy’s dream is troubled; beneath their lids, his eyes dart to and fro.

  The whispered name:

  ‘David . . .’

  Its sound is distant.

  The boy frowns; yet the voice is within his own slumber, a silky calling inside his dream. His arm loosens from dampened bedclothes, his lips part in a silent murmur. His floating thoughts are being drawn unwillingly from their free-roaming hinterland towards consciousness. The protest trapped in his throat takes form, emerges as he wakens.

  And he wonders if he has imagined his own cry as he stares through the glass at the insipid moon.

  There is, in his heart, a dragging sorrow that seems to coagulate the blood, so that movement in his veins is slothful, wearisome, somehow making all effort to exist a ponderous, perhaps even hopeless, affair. But the whispering, almost sibilant, voice dispels much of that inner lassitude.

  ‘. . . David . . .’ it calls again.

  And he knows its source, and that knowledge causes him to shudder.

  The boy sits up, rubs the moisture from around his eyes (for he has wept while sleeping). He gazes at the dim shape of the bedroom door and is afraid. Afraid . . . and fascinated.

  He draws aside the covers and walks to the door, the trouser cuffs of his rumpled pyjamas caught beneath the heels of his bare feet, a boy of no more than nine years, small and dark-haired, pale-skinned and strangely worn for one so young.

  He stands at the door as if fearing to touch. But he is puzzled. More – he is curious. He twists the handle, the metal’s coldness leaping along his arm like iced energy released from a brumal host. The shock is mild against the damp chill of his own body. He pulls the door open and the darkness beyond is more dense; it seems to swell into the bedroom, a waxing shadow. An illusion, but the boy is too young to appreciate such natural deception. He shrinks away, reluctant to allow contact with this fresh darkness.

  His vision adjusts, and the inkiness dissipates as if weakened by its own sudden growth. He advances again, timorously rather than cautiously, passing through the doorway to stand shivering on the landing overlooking the staircase. To descend this would be like sinking into the blackest of all pits, for darkness down there appears absolute.

  Still the hushed whisper urges:

  ‘. . . David . . .’

  He cannot resist. For there is hope for him in that summons. A fragile hope, one that is beyond the tight and restricting bounds of sanity, but nonetheless the faintest denial of something so dreadful that he had become fevered with its burden.

  He listens for a moment more, perhaps wishing that the peripheral voice would also rouse his sleeping parents. There is no sound from their room; grief has exhausted their bodies as well as their spirit. He stares into the umbra below, terribly afraid and, even more terribly, compelled to descend.

  The fingers of one hand slide against the wall as he does so, their tips rippling over the textured paper. Disbelief mingles with the fascination and the fear, small lights – caught from who knows where? – glitter in his pupils, tiny twin beacons moving through the shadows, gleamings that slip jerkily into the depths.

  At the foot of the stairs he pauses once again, glancing back over his shoulder as if seeking reassurance from his spent parents. There is still no sound from their bedroom. No sounds in the house at all. Not even the voice.

  From ahead, at the end of the corridor in which he hesitates, comes a soft glow, a shimmering strip of amber. Slowly, each footstep measured, the boy goes to the light. He stops outside the closed door and now there is a sound, a quiet shifting, as though the house has sighed. It could be no more than a breeze stealing through.

  His toes, peeking from beneath his pyjama legs, are bathed in the warm shine from under the door and he studies them, a delaying diversion from what he knows he must do next. The light is not constant; it flickers gently over the ridges of his toes. His hand grasps the doorhandle and this time there is no cold shock; this time the metal is wet. Or is it merely the wetness of his own palm?

  He has to wipe his hand on the pyjama jacket before he can make the handle turn. Even so his grip is tenuous, skidding over the smooth surface before lodging and turning. A brief thought that there is someone clutching the other side, resisting his effort; then the handle catches and the door is open. He pushes inwards and his face is flushed by the lambent glow.

  The room is a display of burning candles: their light bows with the opening of the door and their waxy smell welcomes him. Shadows momentarily shy away then rush forward in their own greeting as the myriad flames settle.

  At the furthermost point of the room, resting on a lace-clothed table, is a coffin. A small coffin. A child’s coffin.

  The boy stares. He enters the room.

  His step is leaden as he approaches the open casket, and his eyes are wide. The moisture on his skin glistens under the candlelight.

  He does not want to look into that coffin. He does not want to see the figure lying there, not in such alien state. But there really is no choice. He is only a child and his mind is not closed to unnatural possibilities. Optimism may sometimes be bizarre in the very young, but it is no less potent for that. A voice has whispered his name and he has responded; he has his own reasons for grasping at the inconceivable.

  He draws closer. The form inside the silk-lined casket is gradually revealed.

  She wears a white communion gown, a pale blue sash tied at her waist. She is – she was – not much older than the boy. Her hands rest together on her chest as if in supplication. Dark hair frames her face and in her death she is almost serene, a sleeping, untroubled child; and although, in truth, she is perfectly still, unsteady light plays on the corners of her lips so that it seems she suppresses a smile.

  But the boy, despite his yearning to disbelieve, knows there is no life within that pallid shell: the rituals of grief these past two days (not yet complete) were more convincing than her shocking absence. He is close above her, his brow pleated by a desperate longing. He wishes to speak her name, but his throat is constricted by the wretchedness of his emotion. He blinks, dislodging a swell of tears. He leans forward as if he might kiss his dead sister.

  And her eyes snap open.

  And she grins up at him, her young face no longer innocent.

  And her hand stirs as if to reach for him.


  The boy is frozen. His mouth is locked open, lips stretched taut and hard over bone, the scream begun but only breaking loose a moment or two later, a shrilling that cuts through the louring quietness of the house.

  His cry wanes, dissolves, and the boy’s eyes close as reason seeks sanctuary behind oblivion’s velvet walls . . .

  1

  . . . His eyes opened and uncertainty surfaced with the wakefulness. The clatter of iron on iron, wheels on tracks, and the rhythmic lurching of the carriage banished the lingering shreds of his dream. He blinked once, twice, disturbed by gossamer after-images that had no clear form and certainly no context. David Ash drew in a breath and let his head loll to one side so that he could watch the passing scenery.

  The fields were wearied by the season. Leaves, once crispy-brown now rain-soaked and dulled, were beginning to gather beneath the trees, leprous things discarded by their hosts. Here and there a house or cluster of buildings nestled against a hillside, a brief intrusion on the landscape with no prevalence at all over their surroundings. The late-autumn sky appeared as greyly substantial as the land it glowered over, a solid force whose lowest reaches softened hilltops.

  Sudden blackness as the train entered a tunnel, the noise of its passage loudening to a hollow roar. A flaring of light, the man, alone in the compartment, revealed by the small flame.

  Ash flicked off the lighter and the red glow of his cigarette cast deep shadows over his cheekbones and brow. He stared into the darkness and tried to recall the dream that had left him so clammy-cold. It was as elusive as ever. He exhaled smoke, wondering why he was so sure it was the same dream that always left him feeling this way. Perhaps it was because of the faintest odour of candlewax remaining in the air – no, in his mind – afterwards; perhaps it was because it always took a while for his heartbeat to settle. Or perhaps it was because he could never remember this particular dream.

  Daylight burst into the compartment once more as the train rushed through a deserted station. One day, Ash considered, glad of the distraction, there might be hardly any stopping-points at all between cities, towns and villages, the rail network becoming a vast arterial system with few minor organs to service. What then would become of these ghost stations? Would spectral commuters continue to line the decaying platforms, would the guard’s warning to Mind the doors! still echo softly in the ether? Repeated images absorbed by concrete and board to be filtered back into the atmosphere long after the reality had ceased to exist. It was one of the Institute’s standard theories regarding ‘apparitions’ and one that he endorsed. Would that prove to be the case in this new investigation? Perhaps not; but there were plenty of other explanations of so-called ‘phenomena’ to choose from. He watched cigarette smoke rise lazily in the air.

  The train clacked over a level crossing, a solitary car waiting behind the barrier like some small animal mesmerized into immobility by a passing predator.

  Ash glanced at his wristwatch. Can’t be far to go, he assured himself. At least the journey had been restful, he’d had a chance to sleep . . . No, not so restful after all. The dream – whatever its content – had left him a little shaky. And his head ached dully, as it always did after the dream he could not remember. He touched fingertips to the inner corners of his eyes and squeezed gently to ease the ache. The pressure did not work, but he knew what would, an infallible cure. There was no buffet carriage on this train though, nowhere to get a stiff drink. Maybe just as well – it created a poor impression to meet a new client breathing alcohol with your first hello.

  He rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes, the cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, ash floating down onto his rumpled jacket.

  The train sped onwards, hurrying through the countryside, occasionally slowing to a stop at favoured stations, few passengers alighting, even fewer climbing aboard. Towns and villages broke the landscape here and there, but mostly hills and pastures beneath a sullen and swollen sky drifted by the compartment’s windows.

  The journey was over for Ash when the train pulled into the modest country station of Ravenmoor. He quickly hitched up his tie and shrugged on the overcoat that had been sprawled on the seat opposite. Pulling down a black suitcase and a holdall from the overhead rack, he rested them on the floor. He held the door ajar as the train came to a lumbering squealing halt.

  Stepping down, he reached back for his luggage, then slammed the door shut with an elbow. He stood on the platform, the only passenger to leave the train. The station appeared empty of all other life and the absurd notion that it was already a ghost station occurred to him. Ash shook his head, abashed that he, of all people, should entertain such a thought. A uniformed figure emerged from a doorway further along the platform and threw up a hand in an informal gesture towards the engine. The train began to pull away and the guard disappeared again without seeing his charge safely on its way. Ash waited for the last carriage to pass by before walking along to the station’s single-storey building, the comforting clatter of wheels on tracks soon receding into the distance. The end of the train was just disappearing around a bend as he entered the gloomy ticket hall.

  There was no sign of the guard inside and no one waiting to collect his ticket. An elderly couple were standing before the plastic window of the ticket desk, the man bending down to talk through the narrow money slot, ignoring the face-level grille. Ash strolled on through to the road outside.

  No parked vehicles, no one coming forward to greet him. He frowned and placed the luggage on the kerb; he checked his watch. Ash stayed there for a while, studying what he assumed was the village high street. In immediate view there were a few shops, the inevitable building society, a post office – and The Ravenmoor Inn directly across the road. Hands thrust into his overcoat pockets, a fresh cigarette keeping him company, he waited for a car to pull alongside. That did not happen, so he paced the pavement, disliking the chill, a thirst itching at his throat.

  A further ten minutes went by before he shrugged, returned to his case and holdall, and crossed the unbusy road.

  The door of the inn opened on to a vestibule, with separate entrances to the bars on either side. Ash went through to the saloon and its occupants awarded him only brief attention. It was lunchtime active, but Ash had no problem in finding space at the bar, and no trouble in catching the barman’s eye. The broad-faced man detached himself from a conversation and strolled over to the new customer with all the casual authority of a landlord.

  ‘Sir?’ he enquired, indifference to a non-regular plain in his expression.

  ‘Vodka,’ Ash ordered quietly.

  ‘Something with it?’

  ‘Ice.’

  The landlord gave him a long look before turning to the optics. He placed the glass in front of Ash and dropped in two ice cubes from an ice bucket nearby. ‘That’ll be—’

  ‘And a pint of Best.’

  As the other man sidled away to draw bitter from a pump, Ash put two pound coins on the bar, then swallowed half the vodka. He leaned against the counter and let his gaze wander around the room. The inn was untypical of the usual ‘Railway Tavern’, for its low-beamed ceiling, large inglenook fireplace with polished horse brasses displayed over the mantel, declared more rural traditions. A thin man wearing a flat cap, his face blue-red with veins broken by harsh winds, watched him from a corner seat, eyes unblinking and cold. Three business types, hunched over snacks on a minute round table, burst into laughter at a hushed joke. A couple by the door, both approaching middle age, sat close enough together for their thighs to touch and listened over-attentively to whatever the other was saying in the manner of a man and woman each married to a different partner. By the fire was a group in tweeds and mufflers, the men mostly satisfied to listen to the conversation of their womenfolk while they sipped their gin and tonics and pondered the virtues (or perhaps the boredom) of retirement. Generally, the buzz of chatter, a thin haze of cigarette and pipe smoke, the yeasty smell of beer from the cask. Reassuring an
d cosy if you were a regular, clannish and faintly inimical if you were an outsider.

  He turned back to the landlord as his pint was settled on to a counter mat.

  ‘D’you have a phone?’ Ash asked.

  The other man nodded towards the door. ‘Through there. Where you came in.’

  Ash thanked him and collected his change. He took his luggage over to a table beneath a window, then returned for his drinks, sipping the top of the bitter before carrying it and the vodka over to his seat. Discarding his overcoat, he made for the door, taking what was left of the vodka with him.

  The payphone was further along the vestibule and he went to it, digging in his pocket for coins and laying them out on a narrow shelf next to the instrument. Sifting through with a finger he found a 10p and balanced it in the appropriate slot. He dialled a number and pushed in the coin when a girl’s voice answered.

  ‘Jenny, it’s David Ash. Put me through to McCarrick, will you?’

  A hundred or so miles away the telephone rang in an office of the Psychical Research Institute. Bookshelves filled with volumes on the paranormal and parapsychological, together with folders containing case histories of certain types of phenomena, lined the walls; grey, chest-high filing cabinets occupied the few gaps between shelves. A desk, its top cluttered with documents, journals and more reference books, faced a door that was ajar; a smaller desk, likewise untidy, took up space near a corner. A room crammed with the written word, but at that moment, empty of life.

  The phone shrilled persistently and there were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. The door was pushed wider and a woman, somewhat matronly in appearance, bustled in. She wore an outdoor coat and there were bright spots of colour on her cheeks from both the cold and the climb to the Institute’s first floor. In her arms was a large bag and a bulging manuscript envelope. She hastily picked up the phone.

  ‘Kate McCarrick’s office,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘Miss McCarrick isn’t here right now, I’m afraid.’