Sker House (21 page)

What do you want me to do?

Lucy felt dizzy, and gripped the wash basin for support. Whatever was going on, she would like it to end now, please. Enough of this weird shit.

Stop the world, I wanna get off!

Before she could stop herself, she bent over the basin and vomited, the hot noxious fluid burning her mouth and throat as it came up.

It's shock. You're in shock.

Her mind scrambled for an explanation. A trick mirror? A dream? Was she still lying unconscious under the tree? Or was she having a brain embolism or something? She pinched the skin of her forearm between her thumb and forefinger, making herself wince. She knew she winced because she felt the muscles in her face contract and her lips pull back over her teeth, but the face in the mirror didn't flinch.

That was when she started screaming.

Chapter 21:

Changing Destiny

Whilst Lucy did her thing in the bathroom, Dale took the opportunity to change into his good jeans (good in the sense that they were worn-in enough to be comfortable, but still new enough to be considered smart) and a black shirt. His options were limited in that department, as it was the only shirt he owned. His social activities didn't often call for formal wear.

As he carefully gelled his hair into spikes and groomed himself in the dressing table mirror, he thought about how excited he used to be when he first discovered the forbidden world of pubs and clubs. In those halcyon days he would start getting ready at least three hours before he had to leave, then endure an anxious extended wait either sitting in his room or standing outside a pub waiting for his friends. He had since learned the art of restraint, and though the mere prospect of getting drunk still thrilled him, it no longer sent the same waves of anticipation through his body. Nothing ever felt as good as it did when you are young.

It was as if his senses had been deadened by Barry's suicide. Dale was pretty sure that if it hadn't been for that, he wouldn't even be here now. He would never have made it to university. Either directly or indirectly, Barry was the reason Dale decided to leave Wales and see what else the world had to offer. His friend's death was the catalyst, the one momentous event that changed everything. The thing that made him get up and do something. He didn't want to end up swinging from a tree.

Working at the factory, he could see his life stretching out before him like a long, featureless road. Doomed to a life of mediocrity, putting things in boxes day after day. If he was lucky and kept his job for ten or twenty years there was a chance he might make supervisor or even floor manager, but that was as far as he would go. There was more chance of career advancement at MacDonald's. If he was lucky, he'd meet a nice girl along the way and fall in love. A job and a girl, that was enough for most people. But Dale knew it would never be enough for him. That kind of simplified existence would drive him crazy. Too many people in the world made do with a job they hated and a partner they clung to for fear of never being able to find anyone else. He saw it happen on a regular basis; the factory was an endless procession of life's victims. Sometimes you saw the light in their eyes simply wink out.

Click.

The fire inside that kept them going, kept them hungry, suddenly died. It was like seeing them give up. It couldn't be that far removed from the look of a Death Row inmate en route to the execution chamber. Given enough time, factory life can crush anyone, cruelly snuffing out any last vestiges of hope that lingered after you were spat out by the state education system. There were times when Dale thought Barry had the right idea. Opting out seemed like a viable alternative to slaving away lining other people's pockets for half your life. But that would be the easy way out. Selfish. And tough on the family. Not long after Barry's suicide, his mother and father separated and his little brother was taken into care. The village gossip-mongers said they blamed each other for what happened.

Barry's death had galvanised Dale's thoughts and ambitions, make him more focused and determined to follow his dreams. Giving him the gift of appreciation was the greatest thing Barry had ever done for him. Since then, he had come to find solace in the fact that his friend's last act on this earth, his parting gift, was to teach him a valuable lesson; live life to the fullest. Treat each day like it was your last. Because one day, it will be. The days run out, and the clock is ticking for all of us. A line from an old Alarm song ran through his mind:

If a man can't change the world these days,

I still believe he can change his own destiny.

But the price is high, that has gotta be paid

For every one who survives, there are many who fail.

The message in the song was simple. You can't just sit around hoping for a lucky break. That's not enough. You have to make it happen Everyone is responsible for their own happiness. You have the power to either succeed or fail, and you can't always rely on other people to help you out. Why should they? You have to formulate a plan for yourself, then find the skills, courage and belief to make it work.

Writing was Dale's avenue. He wasn't fooling himself into thinking he could be a famous novelist (though that remained a distant ambition) but a job on a newspaper or magazine wasn't beyond him. He was still learning the trade, but writing is a skill you never
stopped
learning. The main thing was he had discovered something he enjoyed, was reasonably good at, and could make a decent living from. He was lucky. And he wasn't like most of the pretentious knobs at his university who deluded themselves into believing they could change the world when most of them couldn't even change their own underpants. Not that it mattered too much, most of them would be absorbed into daddy's company where they probably wouldn't even
have
to change their own underpants.

Suddenly, there was a scream and Dale's attention snapped back to the here and now.
Heart thudding furiously in his chest he bounded over to the bathroom door and hammered on it. “Lucy? Lucy!”

No answer.

Shit!

Dale was preparing to kick the lock off when the door opened and Lucy casually strolled out.

“What's wrong? Why all the screaming?”

“What? Oh, nothing. There was a spider.”

“Haven't you seen a spider before?”

“Yeah, but this one was BIG.”

“Okay. Where is it? I'll throw it out of the window.” Dale said, striding purposefully into the bathroom.

“Too late, his ass is grass. He went down the toilet.”

Dale was sceptical. He couldn't believe a spider caused all that fuss. It wouldn't be the first time in history an impromptu encounter with an insect had made a girl scream, but he knew Lucy was lying. He knew her too well. There was something else going on. And what about her falling out of a tree today on top of everything else?

Why all these things together? Why now?

Was Lucy going nuts?

She hadn't been herself for a while. But Dale was under the impression it was something to do with Steve, the guy she'd been seeing. Lucy had terrible taste in men. That was well documented. If she had any taste at all, she would be on his arm by now instead of going off with idiots who just wanted to use her. But it was her life. All Dale could do was stick around and pick up the pieces when she fell apart. Which, by all indications, was right now.

A quick inspection proved that there was no spider loitering in the toilet bowl. If it had been flushed he would have heard it, which proved Lucy was lying.

Chapter 22:

Talking to the Dead

Lucy needed a lie down. That was all. It had been a trying day. How often do you wake up in a haunted house and fall out of a tree whilst trying to gain access to a secret garden? Sitting on the edge of her bed, she slipped off her shoes and flexed her toes. As she did so, she noticed something lying on the bedside table. Something that hadn't been there before. It seemed so foreign, so alien, that it demanded attention. “Dale? what's that?”

“What's what?” Dale said, emerging from the bathroom. He was looking at her in a way she didn't much care for, as if he was angry or disappointed. Like all this craziness was her fault. She pointed at the object on the table.

“Oh that,” he said dismissively. “It's a key.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I mean, where did you get it?”

“I found it,” Dale replied proudly. “Over there behind the radiator. I don't think it fits anything in the room, so I'm going to hand it in it to Machen later. Maybe the last guests left it her or something. Why?”

“Just wondering.” She picked the key up and examined it. It was heavy. Placing it back on the table, she saw that it left a brown residue on her fingers which she wiped on her jeans. “Ew, dirty.”

“Dirty key, yes. Are we going to listen to this tape, or what?”

“Oh, I forgot all about your little experiment.”

“
My
little experiment? Can I just remind you that this whole recording ghost voices thing was
your
idea?”

“But it's your machine. Hence, whatever happens is your fault.”

“Oh, right. Like that, is it?”

Lucy sat on the bed next to him, and Dale hit the PLAY button. She noticed his hands were shaking ever-so-slightly. There were a few seconds of empty static, then the sound of his voice.

Can you hear me? Who are you? What do you want?

After every question there was a short, almost hopeful pause.

“Very professional.” Lucy said. “You sound like a TV reporter doing his off-air warm-up.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you like.”

“Oh, then ta very much!”

“Welcome. Is this as clear as you can make it?”

“'Fraid so.”

“No offence Dale, but I think your equipment needs to be updated. When are you going to invest in a new Dictaphone?”

“Do you know how much these things cost? I'm an impoverished student, remember.”

“Is there any audio enhancing software we can download from the internet to clean it up?”

“Probably. But I don't have any.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, well. A good craftsmen works with the tools he is given. You should be thankful I brought the Dictaphone at all. I was going to just bring the notepad and pencil. Without which, I might add, we wouldn't even be on our way to solving this mystery. Now, just listen, will you?”

Did you write in my notebook?
Recorded Dale asked.

Pause.

Again,
Did you write in my notebook?

Pause.

And then...

Yes, me.

Lucy's jaw dropped open. Dale stopped the recorder, rewound it a fraction, and played the section again. There was a voice. Very faint, but unmistakable. It was the small voice of a woman or girl, weak and desperate.
It sounded as if it was coming from a long way away, drifting in and out of clarity like a distorted radio signal. There was a pained, breathless tone to it, as if the speaker was expending a lot of energy.

But it was answering his question.

Dale stopped the tape and looked at Lucy, eyebrows raised and mouth open. The colour drained from his face.

Lucy was too shocked to speak. Yes, the experiment had been her idea, but she had never expected results like this! She knew they mustn't get carried away. They had to stay objective, and debunk the obvious first. “Was there anyone else here, Dale? If not in the room then maybe outside in the corridor? Maybe you just got a snatch of a conversation between Isabel and her mother?”

“Do you think I'm that stupid?” Dale scoffed. “I was alone in here. The door was closed, and I didn't see or hear anyone else the whole time I was recording.”

Lucy believed him, knowing he would have much preferred to have made a recording of him asking unanswered questions of an empty room just to prove her wrong. “Then it could be that we have a recording of an intelligent spirit voice. You communicated with the undead, Dale. Congratulations!”

“The undead?” Dale sneered. “Do you have to say that? It's very George A. Romero. Maybe there's more,” he said as he hit PLAY again.

As before, Recorded Dale was asking questions, leaving the obligatory gap before the next one. Except now, each gap wasn't filled with empty static, but with echoes of that same weak, timid voice struggling to be heard above the raging silence. Dale and Lucy huddled closer to the device.

Can you hear me?

Yes...

Who are you?

Liz

What do you want?

Rest.

Hello, is anybody there?

Leave us.

Lucy was numb. Dale was having a conversation with... a ghost. And it was all on tape. “Play that bit again,” she asked. When he did, the voice was still there. On second and third listen, the words were even more plainly audible. “Oh my God, Dale. She says her name is Liz...”

“I know,” Dale said. “As in Elizabeth. Maid of Sker.”

Lucy shook her head, “No, it can't be.” This was all getting too much.

“Look, you wanted to try and capture spirit voices, right? Well, you got your wish. You know, the funny thing is, all this stuff happened between the ninth and twelfth minutes of recording.”

“So?”

“So that was
exactly
when the batteries in my Dictaphone died. I had to replace them. Twice. I remember.”

Lucy thought about this for a moment then said,“Some people believe spirits need to draw energy from something in order to manifest.”

“Well, nicking the power out of all my batteries is a bit of a liberty.”

“Never mind, I'll buy you some shiny new ones, okay?” Lucy cooed. “I'm more concerned about the last thing she said.”

“The 'leave us' part?”

“Yes. Didn't that bother you at all? She doesn't want us here, Dale. She basically told us to get out.”