The Ghosts of Sleath (27 page)

With a grunt, Phelan bent down and picked up his cane. He presented an odd figure in his tweed jacket and paisley cravat, leaning on the cane with the knuckles of his other hand resting against his hip. Around him lay the piled documents and papers, and a shaft of sunlight, softened by the stained glass it shone through, coloured his white hair in mellow tones. In contrast the stone knight behind him seemed ominous in its adamantine contemplation and grey dourness.

‘One thing I do know,’ he went on, fixing Ash with his penetrating gaze once again, ‘and it’s something I discovered in the microfiles of those old local journals.’

Another breeze ruffled the papers on the floor and Ash glanced into the main body of the church to see if anyone had entered by the porch door. There was no one there.

Phelan was oblivious to the sudden gust, even though a parchment had lifted and now rested over one of his brogues. ‘It seems sudden disappearances and unnatural deaths are not unusual in this neck of the woods. I mean, over a long period of time, of course, perhaps a hundred years or more, and for all we know, a lot longer than that - the local gazettes only go so far back. In a shorter span of time, no doubt such incidents would have been noted for their regularity, don’t you think?’

A dark shape fluttered against the stained-glass window above Phelan’s head and they heard the muted
kaa
of a crow. The shadow was soon gone from view, but not before its wings had flapped against the glass a few more times.

Phelan hardly glanced round. He tapped his cane on the stone floor to gain Ash’s attention. ‘And the thing of it is, David,’ he said gravely, ‘the
terrible
thing of it is, that most of those who have disappeared have been children.’

The cry of the crow came to them again, this time as a bleak, distant sound.

M
ICKEY DUNN WIPED
his sleeve across his face, spreading the dirt there rather than shifting it. He shivered, although it was only cool and not cold in the shadowy room in which he had hidden. ‘Must’ve dozed,’ he mumbled to himself, the sound of his own voice odd and echoey in the silence of the ruin. His outstretched legs disturbed rubble when he drew them up and he worried at the noise he’d made. No need to, he told himself, no need at all to worry. No one else was in this place and no one knew he’d come here. Nevertheless his fingers scrabbled around the floor and when they found the armed crossbow Mickey hugged it to his chest, making sure its arrow was pointed away from himself.

The room was brighter than when he’d first crept in, but still gloomy. He could just make out large porcelain sinks under the blackened windows and there was a big square block in the centre of the room, probably used for chopping and preparing food in the olden days before Lockwood Hall was reduced to a gutted shell. Leaves and branches outside pressed against the grimy windows, intruding here and there where the glass had broken, reaching in as if searching for shade rather than sunlight. Was it only dirt on those panes, Mickey wondered, or were they stained by smoke from the big fire all those years ago? Then again, who gave a toss? They made a good cover,
and that was all that mattered. No bugger would find him here.

Fragments of his dream came back to him and at once he felt less secure hunched there in the semi-darkness. He remembered being shut away in the dream, the stench of rotten apples poisoning the air, the bomb shelter’s door locked tight, even though he pounded and pounded against it. Strangely, the smell of those mouldering apples lingered in his nostrils still, as if he hadn’t really woken up, as if the dream was continuing.

Mickey pushed himself up to a squatting position, sliding his back against the wall and brushing dust from its surface. Bits of plaster cracked and fell away, exposing the brickwork beneath.

Nah, weren’t no smell of rotten apples; that was just in his mind, left over from the dream. All he could really smell was dirt and dampness. What was this place? Lockwood Hall, yeah, but what was
this
place? He’d wandered in in the early hours of the morning, shit-scared, dog-weary, shuffling through wasted rooms, feeling his way along corridors that had no ceilings, wary of creaking floorboards beneath his feet, finally finding this huge square room with its nice safe stone floor. What was it? Easy, now there was a little more light. Sinks over there, walls partly covered with charred old cupboards, the big burnt centre block - easy to see it was the Hall’s great kitchen. Bloody rich people with loads of bloody servants and skivvies - they’d’ve needed one as big as this. All their money didn’t do them much good in the end, did it? Bloody place still went up in flames.

He managed a feeble smile. Can’t fight fire with boodle, that was for sure. Can’t buy off fate, neither. His smile, what there was of it, disintegrated. Bloody right, you can’t. Weren’t his fault last night, he didn’t mean to kill nobody. Fate bloody did it.

A sob escaped him, a short barking sound. Its echo snapped his head up again.

Mickey pushed himself all the way to his feet, scraping more blackened plaster and dust from the wall. Clutching the
crossbow in one hand, he wiped the back of his other hand against his eyes, smearing more dirt.

They weren’t going to get him. Oh no, they could blame him all they liked, but they weren’t going to send him down. It was Buckler’s own fault, he shouldn’t have been roaming around in the middle of the night. Besides, he hadn’t aimed at the gamekeeper, he’d shot at the … thing … the thing that made no sense, the spooky thing.

‘Oh shit, shit, shit!’ he moaned, banging the flat of his hand against the wall behind. More plaster fell away and this time dust trickled down from what remained of the ceiling too, powdering his lank hair and floating into his nostrils. He stopped banging, gripping the loaded crossbow with both hands instead.

Bloodyell, this place was ready to cave in. He squinted at the bare beams above his head, blinking away dust that was still settling. Weak sunlight filtered through the broken floors, and he could make out parts of what was left of the roof. A bloody good sneeze and it’d all come down, he told himself, and his giggle was like a hiccup.

It wasn’t really funny. He didn’t like it here, didn’t like it at all. There was something weird about this old ruin, there always had been. Everyone knew it was haunted, that’s why nobody from the village ever came here. All the better for him, though.
He
knew there was no such things as ghosts - that was just kids’ stuff - but if the idea kept nosey bastids away, so much the better. Noises had rattled him earlier when he was dozing, but Mickey was smart enough to know they were only the sounds of the place settling, breezes sifting through woodwork, pieces of stone breaking loose, little animals mooching about. And even when that funny music, that faint old-fashioned tinkly sound he’d heard hours ago as he’d climbed the steps, came back to rouse him from his dozing, he knew it was just part of his dream, because it stopped as soon as he opened his eyes and his wits returned. Stupid to think otherwise, and he certainly wasn’t stupid, even if Lenny and Den sometimes called him that to his face. If he was stupid he’d be banged up in jail
by now like those two probably were, and here he was, free as a bird, nobody knowing where he was hiding. He could stay here for days, weeks. If he had to - if he
really
had to.

Mickey flexed his shoulder muscles, pushing himself away from the crumbling wall, then walked over to the charred block in the middle of the room. Pieces of fallen masonry and wood crunched beneath his sneakers as he made his way through the debris and he jumped when a long splinter of wood snapped, the sound ricocheting off the walls like rifle fire. After that, he made his way more carefully, using the mote-filled shafts of light for guidance, even though he knew there was no one else around to hear.

He reached a scorched doorframe and peered through it. The light was a little stronger out there and he remembered this was the wide corridor he’d crept along in the grey dawn hours; it led from the great hall where the main entrance was situated and where the remains of the two staircases swept down from the floor above. The fire all those years ago must have been worse at the front, although no part of Lockwood Hall had gone unscathed. He sniffed the dank air and it seemed to him that the acrid taint of smoke was still there, locked in with the ghosts that were supposed to haunt the place. Bloody daft. Weren’t no smoke, weren’t no ghosts.

Mickey gingerly stepped over piled rubbish into the corridor and as he did so a sudden and distracting pain squeezed his stomach, almost causing him to lose balance.

‘Bloodyell!’ he gasped, one hand clutching at himself.
That hurt. That bloodywell hurt!
He knew the cause, of course, because it wasn’t a new pain; it happened most times when he was out on a ‘job’ with Lenny and Den. In part it was due to hunger - he never could eat before a night-time jaunt with his two companions-in-crime - but mainly it was anxiety that brought it on (which he would never admit to his cronies). Lenny Grover always laughed at him when he complained of gut-ache, but it was no bloody joke. Mickey’s doctor, old Stapley, had explained about acids eating into the stomach
walls when certain people got over-anxious, especially when there was no food inside them. The doctor - creepy old git - had warned him off booze and greasy food and not eating at the right times, but what the fuck - life was for doing what you wanted, when you wanted. Right? Yeah, right.

Another spasm, a nasty one again, and then it eased off. Must get something to eat, even if it was only berries from the woods. He might even find a nice plump bird or rabbit to shoot. Had to be careful, though, mustn’t be seen. Christ, it was shivery in here.

Mickey moved along the corridor, carefully picking his way over the rubble, the crossbow held tight against his chest. A floorboard bent and creaked beneath his foot and he paused, alarmed at the noise as well as the possibility that it might give way completely. He snorted. He was doing it again, worrying about someone hearing him when he knew the old ruin was deserted. But that floorboard had sagged badly under his weight. Go careful, he warned himself, most of the wood was rotted or burnt through.

There were two doorways next to each other immediately on his right, and curiosity made him peep into the open one. Nothing but charred wreckage beyond, yet oddly, the door next to the open room was made of metal. It was scorched, but looked solid enough, and its handle was smooth and dulled, as if it had been used a lot. No way. No one came here anymore. No one was interested.

He reached for the handle and gave it a twist. It turned easily enough, but the door was locked. Maybe just jammed. He put his shoulder against the flat metal and shoved. Wouldn’t budge.

His attention went back to the other room. Nothing much in there, just fallen rafters and brickwork, a few gaps in the floor, too. Lighter than the one he’d dozed in, though, because its two big windows were not only glassless, but were frameless too. The fire had done a lot more damage here. Could be a better place to hole up in - it still stunk, but not so much.

Mickey took a few steps inside, felt the floorboards sag and was about to make a hasty retreat when his stomach bit him again, the pain even more intense than before. He doubled over, reflexively pulling the crossbow into his belly, the momentum taking him forward rather than backwards. His foot shot ahead to steady himself and the sudden weight caused the floor to give way.

With a yelp, then a scream, Mickey crashed through.

Dirt, rubble and wood fell with him and for a moment - an eternity for him - he experienced fear worse than the night before and worse even than the night in the bomb shelter. It was the not knowing that did it: the time-expanded drop into unknown darkness, wondering how deep the fall would be and what might lie at the bottom to break his bones or pierce his flesh, as well as the thought that the rest of the ceiling might cave in and crush him to death when he landed. There was another possibility too, but even though the descent seemed inordinately long to his dread-stimulated mind, there was not enough time for it to occur to him.

The fall ended, but the clamour went on. Mickey was deafened by the noise, his own scream contributing to this, and blinded by the swirling dust and denser darkness. He was stunned, too, and not just by the awkward landing. Through the confusion of falling debris, the splintering of wood, his own screaming, Mickey had heard -
felt?
- something like a spring being released, and instantly his open jaw was snapped shut by something thudding into it from below. His scream was immediately plugged as that something continued on its way into the roof of his mouth to burst into the open again through the cartilage and bone of his nose.

The short quarrel lodged there, its slickened tip protruding from the bridge of his nose, its feathered end pressed against his neck.

Mickey writhed like some stuck animal, suddenly comprehending what had happened, yet still not believing it, while debris and powdered dust fell on and around him.

It took some time for the downfall to settle, although Mickey, himself, did not. He couldn’t scream anymore, he could only gag and retch because of the blood pouring down the inside of his throat. His screams were nothing more than restrained gurgling sounds.

He pulled at the metal arrow, trying to grip its sticky stiffened feathers, but the blood that ran down its exposed shaft made it impossible. Soon his grubby hands were completely red as the thick liquid oozed between his closed lips and flowed from his nostrils; the blood poured from orifices, natural and rendered, to mix with the filth his fall had released.

Mickey’s agony took him on a frenzied journey across the rubbled floor as his body rolled over and over. Incredibly, he managed to raise himself to his knees and he carried on tugging at the quarrel, his soaking hands constantly slipping away. The pain and shock soon drove him to his feet and he staggered around in the night-darkness, his legs bent in an ape-like swagger. He crashed against the staircase - one that led down from the corridor’s locked iron door - then tottered across the basement chamber, stumbling over debris he had created, sliding on his own trail of blood, burbling and squealing his hurt and distress in alternate bursts.

Blood soon drenched his clothes and each time he spun round in a fresh frenzy blobs of it speckled the walls. His hands and arms were a deep ruby red in the gloom, and his lungs soon began to fill with liquid. Gradually his movement slowed, became weaker, less erratic, and his body began to sag. But by then his maddened trip had taken him to the other end of the dusky room.

As he finally sank to his knees, the lightness in his head defying the dull heaviness of his limbs, Mickey found himself staring into another chamber. His mind was confused and frightened enough, but now it soared to a new level of hysteria as his wild eyes took in the bizarre sight before him, one that was lit entirely by candles.

An expulsion of remaining air drove a huge spurt of blood
through the narrow parting of his lips and dark, bubbled liquid stained the clean stone floor inside the opening.

Mickey followed that arc of blood, falling onto his face with a dull, fleshy
smack
. His eyes remained open, although vision swiftly faded. The image of those bright-burning lights and the person they revealed lingered longer in his mind, however, almost, but not quite, following him into his miserable death.