The Ghosts of Sleath (31 page)

The dead don’t breathe
, his mind silently screamed,
so why can I hear it, why can I feel it, why can I smell its fetid scent?

And why could he sense a bony hand reaching towards him, scraps of thin, crispy flesh falling like sparse confetti from it to litter the floor?

‘Oh Mother Mary …’ he whined and then remembered the door opened inwards.

He pulled, cracking the door against his knee, then slid through, slamming it shut behind him. He thought he heard something scrape against the wood on the other side.

Phelan did not wait inside the porch. The cold here was as deep as a freezer’s and he had the irrational fear - as irrational as being chased by the dead - that his limbs would be too rigid to move if he remained much longer. Besides, there really was no incentive to stay.

Two steps took him to the outer door and this time there was no fumbling with the handle. The door opened easily and he staggered out to collapse onto the gravel path outside. Still he did not stop; he crawled through the graveyard, scraping his knees and hands against the gravel, all the while telling himself that this was madness, that there really could not have been any ghostly stalker back there in the church, it was entirely in his own overwrought imagination, a sudden aberration of the psyche brought on by the horrors he had subjected himself to that day. Spirits, evil or otherwise, did not come in this form - they did not move tombstones, they did not breathe, they did not give chase. Madness. Madness.
Madness!

His mind being on other things, he failed to notice the mist around him.

T
HE TRANSITION FROM
sleep to wakefulness was abrupt. One moment Ash’s eyes were closed, the next they were wide open and staring up at the ceiling.

He lay still, regathering his senses, for a second or two his mind a blank sheet. And then it came to him, a sudden recognition of events and circumstances. He shut his eyes again, raising a hand to cover them, struggling to bring some order to the thoughts that flooded in.

He began to understand.

Ash uncovered his eyes and wondered why the room was so dark. How long had he slept?

Rising from the bed, he went to the window and drew back the curtains. His body tensed when he saw the fog outside, a yellowish, curling mist that all but obscured the houses and village hall on the other side of the green. It turned and drifted, lazy in movement, somehow sinister in texture. Its unearthliness was heightened by the absolute silence out there, a total lack of normal activity. No footsteps or voices, no birds calling to each other, and no traffic; even the inn itself was bereft of the usual muffled tones of customers in the bar below.

Ash turned away from the window, perturbed by the fog and the hush that came with it, and caught sight of the figure asleep on the bed.

Grace lay on her side, one knee bent, her skirt high over a
smooth thigh; her shirt was open, the curve of a breast revealed. Shadows veiled intimate parts he had kissed, caressed, and he felt himself stir at the sight of her, his own nakedness contributing to the arousal. But with the desire came the memory of his journey into her consciousness, the discovery of a secret she had hidden even from herself. He went to her, kneeling by her side on the bed.

‘Grace.’

It was said too quietly to awaken her.

He touched her shoulder, shook it gently. ‘Grace,’ he called again, louder this time.

She stirred, a slight lifting of her chin, a parting of her lips.

‘Wake up, Grace.’ He brushed her hair away from her cheek with his fingertips.

A frown disturbed the smoothness of her forehead and he saw the twitch of her eyes as they moved beneath their lids. Grace mumbled something, perhaps his name, and her eyes slowly opened. A smile touched her lips at the sight of him and a hand reached out, sliding along his thigh. She twisted, unbending her leg so that the dark hair between her legs was no longer in shadow. He wanted to touch her, wanted to slide his hand between the flesh of her thighs and again feel the moistness of her inner body.

Instead, he said, ‘We have to go.’

She stayed her hand, her frown harder this time.

Ash leaned forward to kiss her and her lips eagerly met his. Once more desire almost drove other thoughts, other purposes, from his mind, but a deeper concern strengthened his resolve. Even so he wondered at the intensity of his feelings for her. It should never have happened, he shouldn’t have allowed it to happen; he had remained immune for so long and now he had let this woman, this sweet, vulnerable woman, slip through his guard and become part of his life as if the lesson had never been learned. He craved to hold on to her, he wanted to crawl beneath the bedcovers and keep her there tight against him, away from the dread and discovery that lay beyond this
safe, protected room. Yet he was aware that this was a false hope and that Grace’s release from the sickness inside her could only be through revocation. They both shared a rejection of the past, his own misguided guilt confusing the memory of his sister’s tragic death, while Grace was tormented by something concealed even from herself. Perhaps her conscious mind was unaware of that inner turmoil, but her subconscious understood it only too well.

She clung to him as he attempted to draw away. ‘Please, David,’ she whispered.

He gripped her wrists to take them from his neck. ‘It’s happening, Grace,’ he told her. ‘Take a look outside the window.’

She pulled back to look into his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Can’t you feel it?’

A smile of misunderstanding broke into her frown, but it faded almost instantly. He saw her stiffen, her eyes searching the room.

‘What is it?’ She clutched at herself as if suddenly chilled.

When he didn’t answer she slid past him and made for the window. He heard her faint gasp.

‘It could be a natural heat mist,’ he offered lamely, not sure why he was trying to rationalize the phenomenon. Could he be hoping she’d agree with him? Would a mutual assessment
render
it normal? Such hope was quickly dashed when she turned back to him with fear in her eyes.

‘What does it mean, David?’

Because he had no answer he ignored the question. Instead he reached for his clothes and began to pull them on. ‘I want to take you back to your father,’ he said.

She appeared surprised, then slowly began to button her shirt. ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’ Her hands were still for a moment. ‘My father has something to do with all this.’

‘I think he may be one of the causes.’ He moved towards her, his hands reaching out to touch her shoulders. ‘He hasn’t
been honest with you, Grace.’ She broke away as if angry and went to the bed to find the rest of her clothing.

She suspects, he thought as he watched her. But she has no real idea of her own involvement. Ash slipped his shirt on, then reached for his shoes and socks while Grace sat on the bed and waited for him. She seemed numbed and he wondered what turmoil was going on inside her head. He busied himself tying his laces, realizing that for the moment he could not help her, that in all probability she would not believe him anyway. Not for the first time he cursed the psychic aberration that sometimes allowed him to understand the thoughts, hidden or otherwise, of others.

When he was ready, he took her by the hand and led her from the bedroom.

As they made their way along the musty corridor and then down the stairs, Ash resisted the urge to break the silence and call out for the landlord or his wife. When they reached the bar, they found it empty.

It was an odd sensation crossing the large vacant room towards the open doorway to the street, for the hush was almost a sound in itself. Ash could not help but imagine how it would have been a century ago, with its stout oak beams and large open fireplace, the room filled with tradesmen, farmers, labourers, even the local gentry, mingling and swapping yarns, laughter over there in the corner, the landlord remonstrating with a farm-worker a little worse for ale at the bar …

‘David…?’

He blinked, startled.

‘You stopped,’ Grace said. ‘You were listening for something.’

He gave a small shake of his head as if dazed. ‘I thought …’ He wiped his hands across his face. ‘Never mind. Let’s get moving.’

They continued their journey through the apparently deserted inn and Ash concentrated on the doorway ahead, unwilling to be distracted again by activity that existed only
inside his own imagination. When they reached the large entrance door they stopped again, this time deliberately.

‘It’s so eerie,’ Grace said quietly as they gazed out into the yellow-tainted mist. ‘And its smell…’

The various colours of the cars parked opposite were lacklustre seen through the drifting clouds and the grass of the village common appeared dull, almost grey. Ash narrowed his eyes, peering intently into the haze when he thought he discerned darker shapes moving through it. It was impossible to tell if there were figures out there for, once focused upon, the shapes seemed to dissolve into the fog itself.

Reluctant though he was to leave the sanctuary of the inn, Ash knew they could not stay there. Something - he guessed it was a kind of anger, a rage at the things that had already occurred in Sleath - was compelling him to go to the Lodge House and confront Grace’s father.

He stirred himself. ‘No point in taking my car,’ he said to her. ‘I think it’d be quicker to walk in this.’

She nodded and rubbed at her upper arms.

‘You cold?’ he asked, and she nodded again.

He felt it too, the same kind of chill he’d felt inside St Giles’. Briefly he wondered if Phelan was still searching through the records up at the church.

Grace hesitated as Ash stepped out into the street and he had to take her hand once more to coax her. She followed, keeping close to him, her hand tight in his.

‘Do you see them, David?’

At first he wasn’t sure what she meant, then realized she was referring to the vague shapes moving in the mist.

‘They’re nothing, Grace, just odd patches of darker fog.’

But he knew he was wrong, he knew they were something else.

‘They’re people,’ Grace said.

One was close, on the other side of the road, close to the common. Determinedly, Ash strode towards it, leaving Grace behind. He could make out the shape of a head, shoulders, the
rest of the figure obscured by a low swirling of denser fog, and he opened his mouth to call out, anxious to make contact. As he approached, the figure - or what he could see of it - simply evaporated, became nothing.

Stunned, Ash came to a halt halfway across the road and stared at the spot where the partial figure had been. The mist blustered as if disturbed by a sharp gust of wind. He felt Grace by his side again.

‘I saw it,’ she said, catching at his arm. ‘It just vanished.’

He continued to stare into the mist. ‘It isn’t possible.’

‘You know it is, David. Haven’t you learned anything about this place?’ Before he could respond she raised a hand. ‘Oh dear God, look …’

Ash followed her pointing finger and saw that the yellowish clouds had thinned out over the village pond, the water there as placid as usual. Yet there was a difference now, for there seemed to be a peculiar sheen to its surface. And the grass around its edges was stiffened and white as if … he blinked his eyes to clear them … as if frosted.

‘It’s ice, David.’ Grace was still pointing. ‘The pond is frozen over.’

A cry from somewhere in the distance startled them both. It was a bleak, isolated sound, like an eagle’s call across a lonely moor. Grace’s grip on his arm tightened.

Ash shifted his gaze from the iced pond and peered into the sluggish mist. There were more grey shapes out there, some perfectly still, others moving slowly.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, taking Grace by the waist.

She resisted. ‘I’m frightened, David.’

He faced her, pulling her close. ‘They’re apparitions; they can’t harm us.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘Only our own fear can hurt us.’ It was glib, unconvincing, but the best he could do under the circumstances. ‘It’s important that we get to your father, Grace,’ he added, perhaps to motivate her.

‘You haven’t told me why.’ She searched his face as though she might find some answer in his expression alone.

Ash began to speak, changed his mind, and started again. ‘There are certain things I think he can explain,’ he said simply, hoping to leave it there.

Grace persisted. ‘Why shouldn’t he have explained them to me before? He’s my father, for God’s sake.’

‘You have to ask him that yourself.’

It was a cold reply, and one that visibly shook her.

‘What do you know, David?’ The question was asked quietly, but there was an intensity about it that unsettled him.

‘You sensed things about me, Grace, memories and traumas that only I could be aware of. Earlier I sensed them about you too. All I can tell you is that your father has deceived you for a very long time.’

She shook her head, refuting his words.

‘Then let’s go to him, let’s confront him,’ he urged.

‘He’s sick, Dr Stapley said he shouldn’t be disturbed.’

‘Then you’ll never know the truth.’

He could see her confusion, sense the shock inside her. But soon a resolution took hold of her.

‘You’ll help me, won’t you?’ she said to him, and Ash quickly took her in his arms. He kissed her hair, hugged her close.

She drew away and, after another searching look into his eyes, turned to face the road ahead.

They kept to the centre of the High Street, listening for any approaching traffic but, save for the scuff of their own shoes on the roadway, there was only a deep silence all around them. The fog, or mist, was patchy, sometimes obscuring the buildings across the green completely, at other times allowing them to see white picket fences, small hedges and verges, and the houses beyond. The houses were unlit, but they knew there had to be people inside, that the whole village could not have been evacuated while they, Grace and Ash, had slept. So where were the villagers? Were they so frightened that they were staying behind closed doors? Could they, too, sense the threat?

A thicker cluster of shadows was gathered beneath the tree at the end of the common, but again, as they approached, the shapes dimmed, then faded into the mist itself. But a pitiful moaning came to them as they drew level with the old stocks and whipping post.

‘Keep walking,’ Ash urged calmly.

Grace allowed herself to be taken along, but could not help glancing at the weathered wooden relics, almost as if expecting to find them in use. To her relief they were empty, although something dark and slick seeped down the whipping post, forming a spreading stain at its base as it sank into the earth. It looked like blood, but she had no desire to confirm the impression. Neither did Ash, who had noticed it too.

They kept moving, reaching the end of the green, and when Ash looked back over his shoulder, the shapes had re-formed around the stocks and whipping post. He did not mention it to Grace.

A scream came from one of the houses off to their left, a human cry this time, muffled by the walls around it. It was followed by another, this one further away, from a different house. They heard a door slam, then running footsteps which faded into the distance.

Silence descended again, broken only by their own steps. The tainted fog drifted around them, offering glimpses of the empty street one moment, concealing the way ahead the next. The few shops they had passed appeared empty, with no lights on against the gloom, and their doors closed. At one stage Ash touched a hand to his face and felt a cold dampness there.