Sker House (12 page)

No Lucy.

He stuck his head outside and peered into the darkness. In the sky overhead, stars blinked intermittently through clouds racing across the sky. His car was still there, he could see its silhouette. At least Lucy hadn't stolen it to go joyriding. He wondered if he should risk calling out to make sure she hadn't taken shelter somewhere within earshot. But that would probably wake up everyone within a mile radius. He settled for calling her name in a hoarse whisper a few times instead. No response.

Standing on the doorstep, he scratched his head. What should he do now? What
could
he do? Raise the alarm? When would be the appropriate time to push the red panic button?

Away to the left, the path they walked just hours earlier stretched out into the darkness beyond and a gentle breeze ruffled the foliage. If Dale listened carefully, he could hear the constant restless murmur of the sea. He thought about venturing down to the beach, but knew it would be a pointless exercise. It would be so dark down there Lucy could be right under his nose and he wouldn't be able to see her. He whispered her name once more, as loudly as he dared, waited and listened.

As if in response to his voice, this time there was a noise. Something unidentifiable and foreign, yet unmistakeably manufactured. It came from somewhere on or near the path. His head snapped in that direction. Holding his breath, he scrutinized the dark expanse stretching out before him.

Something was moving.

He looked for recognisable shapes and outlines, but could distinguish nothing amongst the perpetually crawling shadows. “Lucy?” he said cautiously, “Is that you?”

Suddenly, a strange feeling settled over him. No, not a feeling, more a conviction. An awful certainty that whatever lurked a little way up that path was not for his eyes. It was something inhuman, something terrible. Dale struggled to stay calm, and without even realizing it, retreated warily back over the threshold of Sker House hoping its bricks and mortar would provide refuge. He thought about calling out again, but decided against it. Maybe a cat or a dog made the noise, a hedgehog or field mouse, even a werewolf or a zombie. Whatever, it wasn't Lucy.

He decided to check their room again to see if she'd returned. If not, he would rouse the landlord and find out what the usual procedure was when one of his guests went missing. With no small sense of relief, he closed the self-locking door behind him and retraced his steps back up the stairs, cursing himself for getting spooked so easily. Some knight in shining armour he was turning out to be. He was halfway back to their room when he noticed the second flight of stairs leading to the upper floors. Of course! How could he have been so stupid? Knowing Lucy, she was off trying to get pictures of the Maid of Sker in action. The fourth floor, where she'd seen the figure at the window.

He didn't bother checking their room. Instead, he bounded up the staircase two at a time. As he neared the top he slowed and became more cautious. Here, the smell of paint was stronger. Didn't Machen say this part of the house was still being renovated? Who knew what he would think if he found Dale or Lucy roaming around up here at night unsupervised. He carefully opened a door leading to another corridor. A large hand-drawn sign hanging on the door reading PRIVATE: NO ADMITTANCE was enough to make Dale pause for no more than a second.

Find Lucy, get the hell out
.

The corridor was as black as the night outside. And why wouldn't it be? Nobody was even supposed to be up here. Hot on the heels of that thought came another, this one even more disturbing. Was it safe? There could be any number of life-threatening hazards laying in wait. The darkness seemed to ooze out onto the landing like an ink spill as Dale swiftly closed the door again to buy some time to think. He was way out of his depth. He wanted to go and find Machen. He probably wouldn't be best pleased to be woken up at this hour, but at least he would know what to do.

On the other hand, he couldn't turn back now. If it hadn't been for him, Lucy wouldn't even have come to Sker. Now he was here, it wouldn't hurt to have a quick look around. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door again. It immediately tried to close itself, so Dale looked around for something to brace it open with. There was a large red fire extinguisher on the floor, which he shunted over and leaned against the door. The light from the landing would provide at least a little illumination, but more importantly, would stop him becoming disoriented. That done, he moved quietly into the corridor, squinting to try and see better.

The floor in this part of the house was littered with debris and yet to benefit from the luxury of a carpet. Even though he wore trainers and tried to tread carefully, the sound of his footsteps announced his presence. As he made his way down the corridor he kept imagining long, skeletal arms with rotting skin and flesh hanging off in strips reaching out and grabbing for him. He found himself moving quicker, the rectangle of light behind him diminishing with every step.

Around half way down, he realized he wasn't alone. There was a figure up ahead. Dale stopped dead in his tracks and stared. It was definitely a human form, wearing something white, standing motionless at the dark end of the corridor. Judging by the shapely contours, he guessed it was a female.

The Maid of Sker?

Was he looking at a ghost? All the strength in his legs was sucked out and he leaned against the cracked, blistered wall to stop himself sinking to the floor. At any other time (preferably with a TV crew in tow) he would be happy to catch a glimpse of a famous apparition. But not tonight. Not now. His first instinct was to run. Get away. Go and get Machen. But what would Dale say to him?
I was just trespassing upstairs, you know, the part of the house currently closed to the public, whilst looking for my friend, who's missing, by the way, when your ghost jumped out and scared the shit out of me
.

That didn't sound very plausible, and Dale couldn't think of a way to make it sound any better. Eyes glued to the apparition floating in front of him, he summoned every ounce of courage he had and pushed himself off the wall.

This is why you came here, he told himself. You came looking for ghosts and you found one. You should feel lucky not scared. How many fishermen go fishing then run away at the sight of a fish?

Forcing his legs to do what they didn't want to do, he took a few hesitant paces forward. He wanted to try and make contact with the spirit, find out why it was here. At least he would get to see what a ghost looked like close up.

Eyes fixed on the eerie sight in front of him, he edged closer. The figure hadn't moved an inch, and he began to wonder whether it could be a mannequin, liberated from a fashion boutique and left to rot here in the upper reaches of Sker House. Optimistic, maybe. But as the old saying went, 'Hope for the best, plan for the worst'. Applying the maxim he found himself hoping for a mannequin, planning for a supernatural entity, and getting ready to run just in case.

Suddenly, the figure swayed slightly, like a blade of grass bending in a gentle breeze. It was no mannequin. It was a girl, standing outside a door and facing away from him.

Dale stopped. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat, “Er... miss?” At the sound of his voice the girl's head twitched, then slowly began to turn. He checked behind him to make sure the exit was still clear and visible, that dependable, ever-shrinking rectangle of light.

Curiosity drove him on, and he took another step forward. Hardly any light could penetrate this far, it was virtually pitch black. The girl faced him now, but he still couldn't make out any features. Then, she shuffled forward a few steps and reached out a hand. “Dale, is that you? What happened?”

He had found Lucy.

Chapter 10:

Alone with the Horrors

Machen lay motionless in his too-big bed, bathed in light from the lamp on his bedside table. It was switched on most of the time these days, its 60-watt bulb blazing defiantly on through the night. He may have lapsed into a couple of hours of fevered dozing after he polished off the latest bottle of JD, but he knew that was his lot for the night. Sleep was a luxury. Some nights were better than others. Once, a couple of weeks ago, he managed a full four hours. Or at least, he thought he did. Looking back he wasn't so sure. He may only have dreamt he was asleep all that time.

Is that even possible?

The sleep he did get was never restful. The wheels of his mind never stopped turning, and awful things stalked his dreams. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he sympathised with the workmen who complained about being unable to sleep at Sker House. Now he understood. But as usual, it was too late. And what good was understanding, anyway? Understanding something didn't magically grant you the ability to change it.

Like most children, in his early years Machen had been afflicted with a profound fear of the dark. He remembered watching the sun go down through his bedroom window with a sense of building trepidation, because he knew another night was coming. But as he grew into a man, the fear left him to be replaced by more mundane preoccupations like love and work, and was largely forgotten. When he matured, he came to realise that the root of his anxiety was a simple fear of the unknown, rather than a fear of the dark itself. Darkness renders you blind, depriving you of the most essential of the five senses, and you fear what
could
be there rather than what
is
there. Which was usually a big fat nothing. As soon as he accepted this fact, the nights became easier. As he grew older he learned to savour the serenity, and welcomed its silent embrace. Nights were quiet and peaceful, a time for rest and reflection.

But now in his twilight years that irrational childhood fear was back, and he had grown to despise the night more than ever. As daylight faded, he found himself getting more and more agitated. He dreaded the onset of darkness almost as much as he dreaded counting his bar takings at the end of the day. That was when he usually reached for the bottle of whisky, telling himself it would soothe his shattered nerves and help him sleep. It never did. In fact, many times it seemed to have the opposite effect and he would lie awake, head spinning violently. Darkness made him feel inconsequential, like he didn't even exist. The knowledge that all his adult life had been spent in denial didn't sit well with him. All that time spent fooling himself, wrapping himself in a thick cloak of ignorance. Sker House had taught him that all those terrible things he imagined when he was a child, like salivating monsters with yellow eyes and long, sharp teeth and claws ready to tear the flesh from his bones, were more than just figments of an over-fertile imagination. They were real.

To his detriment, he also knew that even worse prowled the nocturnal landscape in those fateful hours before dawn. He had seen things. And not just in dreams. Nothing as graphic as a salivating monster with yellow eyes and long, sharp teeth and claws. Not yet. But things every bit as disturbing. Once, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a long, tapering tail flicking in a shaft of moonlight in the corner of his bedroom. He would routinely turn off the bedside lamp and watch the shadows in his room converge and became one with the darkness, then morph and twist into monstrous shapes right before his very eyes. There were figures in there. Some hunched and distorted, others towering over him, long and slender.

At that point he would snap the light back on, feeling a small spark of triumph as the darkness and all that dwelt in it immediately receded. Sometimes he played the game all night, revelling in the small sense of control it provided. If needed, there was a handful of spare bulbs in one of the drawers of his bedside table, right next to his torch and the supply of candles, matches, and cigarette lighters he kept close at hand.

The light kept the crawling, creeping shadows at bay, but did nothing to curtail the strange cacophony of sounds, which were always more noticeable at night. He suspected the noises were there in the background all the time, going unnoticed beneath the din of daily life. But when the night settled there was no camouflage, and the muffled knocks and scrapes were plainly audible. He worried about the guests more than himself. If he saw and heard these things, maybe they did too. He didn't want to have to answer any awkward questions at breakfast. He had enough to do.

He wondered if Old Rolly saw and heard things.

That was a lie. He
knew
the old man saw and heard things.

What he really wondered was what Old Rolly thought when he saw and heard things. Despite his outward appearance, he was a shrewd character. He had lived a life and often gave the impression that he knew far more than he was letting on.

What brought him to Sker House? Why here?
Why now?

Who cares? He pays his keep.

When the noises first began to be a problem Machen tried listening to Classic FM on his clock/radio to block them out. But the noises would only rise in volume, seemingly in direct correlation with how loudly the music was being played. Occasionally, he was tempted to crank the volume switch as high as it would go, just to see how far he could push things. Being on a different level to the guest rooms meant he wouldn't disturb anyone. Especially with walls and floors this thick. But he feared the experiment would end badly. Through a process of trial and error, he discovered that as long as he didn't try to fight them, the noises usually remained at an acceptable level.

However, tonight was different.

Tonight, the knocks and scrapes seemed somehow different. They had risen above their normal volume and were more deliberate and agitated. Almost as if they were reacting to something.

But what? He hadn't done anything wrong. He had lived up to his end of the uneasy amnesty he thought he had reached with the entities with which he shared Sker House. No more Billy Joel at ridiculous volume, he got it. If not him, something else must be troubling them. Upsetting the status quo.