Authors: Neil Jackson
Below
Anderson watched, his eyes so wide that to any onlooker they
appeared about to leave their sockets, his fear morphing into
terror, not the mind numbing kind, but the kind that is bright and
final. Anderson opened his mouth and gasped, and it came as a
reed-thin sound.
And when
the growling began, filling the car with its savage music, Cory
Anderson added to the lift’s aroma by pissing his pants.
Sitting
in a cooling pool of his own urine, Anderson watching the thing as
it emerged through the makeshift opening. First came those hands,
fingers hooked and eager, followed by a long slim wrist, the skin
smudged with whites and purples, the veins knotted and so close to
the surface Anderson could see the blue-green blood pumping through
them. Saliva dropped into the car from the dark, ragged hole above
in viscous strings, a terrible rain that purged nothing.
Then came
the face.
And those eyes
.
Up close
Anderson was mesmerised by them, twin orbs of fire locking onto
him, piercing him, branding his very soul with their intensity. The
rest of the creature’s face was no less incredible: a high brow,
thick black hair matted and plastered to its skull, and the side of
its head so the pointed ears jutted from the mane like twin shark
fins cutting through the surf.
Then it
was in the lift, landing with a heavy thump and bringing with it
the putrid reek of decaying meat; forcing Anderson’s gut to unload
its contents again, and there was no stopping it this time, his
puke slapping down his chest and into his lap, where it made its
acquaintance with his piss soaked pants.
The thing
reached down and took hold of Anderson by the throat, lifting his
dead weight as though it were nothing at all. Instinctively,
Anderson’s hands went for the wrist attached the vice now crushing
his larynx. The world turned to fog as his oxygen supply was
severed, but in the mist of his fading consciousness, he realised
that the hands he’d clamped about the beasts wrist were making
contact with cold, hard metal. Before he could make sense of it the
creature was savaging him, teeth making contact with the flesh of
his face, ruining it, severing lips and ears and the nose, chewing
on the skull as though engaged in a brutal, bloody kiss.
Then
powerful jaws clamped down and cracked open the skull, and Cory
Anderson ceased to exist. The beast sucked out his brain and
swallowed it in two bites; releasing the mutilated corpse almost
immediately and leaving it to crash to the bloodied
floor.
For a
short time the thing watched Anderson’s remains, its eyes
unblinking, and as red as the blood splashed across its misshapen
face. Then it was moving again, its long scrawny arms reaching up
to the ceiling and hooking onto its crude exit in the
roof.
And as it
reached up and hoisted itself out of the car, a small object
slipped down the creature’s wrist, an object made from cheap steel
and plated with yellow paint.
A fake Rolex watch
.
THE
CURIOUS OBSESSION OF MATTHEW DEACON
Richard Tyndall
1
Aldwark
is a typical eastern shire town sitting serenely in the midst of
manicured agricultural landscapes on the gravel terraces of the
River Trespass. It has all the facilities and attractions one might
expect of such a burgh. The cobbled market place – markets held
Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays – is expansive and bounded on its
western flanks by a fine, colonnaded Georgian Town Hall flying the
cross of St George.
The
parish church, notable for the height of its steeple, lies just off
the square behind a row of equally fine Georgian terraces. The
castle, where at least one English King breathed his last, has
latterly been reduced from its former glory by the misnamed Lord
Protector, flushed with the success of the Puritan rebellion; its
ornate carved limestone features stripped away and its stone reused
in manor houses and cottages across half of the shire. Recently
restored, at least to the extent of making it safe for inquisitive
children and visiting tourists, it still presents a majestic façade
to the river and contains within its grounds the Victorian library
named for one of the town’s philanthropic benefactors.
The area
betrays its Danelaw origins both in its plan and in the street
names – the Germanic ‘gate’ suffix being common throughout the
town. A liberal scattering of Norse and Saxon place-names in the
surrounding villages only serve to reinforce the area’s
Scandinavian heritage. Close by the town are Bronze Age barrows,
Roman settlements and Saxon cemeteries whilst half a dozen of the
local roads began as prehistoric trackways, later Roman highways
and finally Restoration turnpikes. The district has produced one
Prime Minister and numerous generals, writers, artists, scientific
theorists and other gentlemen of note.
It is
unsurprising therefore that, in a town so immersed in history and
moment, there should be a museum to collect and display the many
artefacts and archaeological curiosities uncovered by more than a
century of research and excavation. The institution in question is
housed in a series of old school buildings – Tudor in origin - on
Orchard Gate; a tree lined avenue which runs from the market place,
past the back of the church and down a shallow hill towards the
railway station on the northern fringes of the town. At some point
in the last century or two an architectural vandal realized that
there was just enough room between the edge of the road and the old
school to place a four storey block of dark brick and misery in
front of the Tudor halls and, when the complex became the home for
the town’s museum, it was this uninspiring building that was chosen
to house the offices, archives and laboratories that would sort and
store the minutiae of Aldwark’s past.
When
first we met, Matthew Deacon was a tall, stringy, fifteen year old
whose home was in the village of Byfordham just over the borders of
the shire. He had a fascination with all things ancient and had,
early in his teens, taken to hanging around the museum chatting
with the curators and undertaking odd jobs for Gordon Sullivan, the
town’s archaeological conservator. Sullivan was an old, heavily
bearded archaeologist who, in spite of being in his late middle age
and facing the prospect of retirement in perhaps only a few years,
was nevertheless able to instil in our young friend an abiding love
of the mystery and glamour of past lives and the artefacts that
were their lasting representation in our modern age. So powerful
was Sullivan’s influence that, when the time came for him to
consider a university education which would decide the future path
of his life, Deacon had no hesitation in choosing Cambridge and the
formal study of the art and science of archaeology.
Looking
back now it might seem that the timing of events was all too
perfect to be simple coincidence but such hindsight provides a
dangerous and misleading view of the way the world works and it
should be sufficient to record the events as they occurred without
further comment. So it came to pass that, just as Deacon completed
his university education with well deserved accolades, Sullivan,
having hung on in his position far longer than anyone had expected,
should finally reach an age at which it was considered he could no
longer carry out his duties to the satisfaction of the local
corporation and should take his leave of the museum. Foreswearing
the many offers of further research and highly sought after
positions of employment, Matthew Deacon returned to Aldwark and,
with the minimum of fuss, took up the position previously held by
his friend and mentor.
One
spring afternoon, half a year after he had taken up his new
position, I called upon the town archaeologist at his offices and
invited him to step out for afternoon tea at a small café opposite
the museum. This had become something of a ritual indulgence
undertaken at least once every week and was always a most pleasant
experience for both of us. Deacon was unfailingly bright and
cheerful, never seeming to let any adversity destroy his positive
outlook on life and his company and conversation were always a
pleasure. But on this occasion I was immediately struck by the aura
of pent up excitement that surrounded him as he bounced down the
stairs ahead of me and rushed across the road into the café. Never
had I seen him more buoyant; a state of mind I mistakenly
attributed to his recent notable successes on a Roman excavation on
the fringes of the town. This, combined with his employment in a
place where, under other circumstances, I am sure he would have
paid good money to work, seemed good enough reason for him to be
pleased with his lot.
But given
that he surely had much news of interest to impart concerning his
ongoing research and forthcoming excavations, I was momentarily
surprised by his opening remarks.
Once we
had settled to our table and taken delivery of our refreshments, he
began.
“
I saw her Dr Trenton. As plainly as I see you sitting there in
front of me with that teacake in your hand, I saw her on the
stairs.” He was almost breathless in his excitement.
I knew
immediately to whom he was referring and smiled indulgently at my
young friend’s child-like enthusiasm for his recent experience. It
was clear that he had just had his first encounter with
Maud.
Ever
since Matthew started working at the Museum as a curious teenager,
he had heard the stories about the girl on the stairs. Almost
everyone who worked in the building had seen her at one time or
another and she had become such a familiar sight for many there
that she was now considered part of the fixtures and fittings; a
good subject for pranks, late night stories and general discussion.
No one felt any fear concerning her presence although some of the
secretaries had, on occasion, expressed their dislike of staying in
the offices alone.
The
offices and stores occupied only one end of the four-storey
building and were reached by a doorway adjacent to the main
entrance to the museum. Each floor was connected by a set of spiral
stairs which rose through the end of the building with small
landings on each level to give access to the rooms. On the ground
floor were store rooms for artefacts; row upon row of shelves and
racks containing boxes of finds, donations and collections, many of
which were poorly recorded and long forgotten.
From the
narrow, stone flagged hallway the metal stairs ascended to the
first floor where the conservation laboratory and archaeology
office were all contained within a single, large, concrete floored
room with high ceilings and wide sash windows. Above, on the second
floor, were the secretary’s office and the museum records and
accounts while the third and final floor and attics contained the
archives, the manuscript collections and the small private museum
library.
The
ghost, known affectionately as Maud – a name ascribed to the
apparition so long ago that no one at the museum now knew its
origins – would enter through the door on the ground floor. She
would then ascend the stairs, past the laboratory on the first and
the offices on the second floors apparently en route for the
archives at the top of the building. From here there was no exit
other than an emergency door and fire escape which were alarmed to
prevent misuse or burglary. Needless to say, Maud never reached the
top floor and anyone embarking upon pursuit would find the archives
empty and the emergency exit undisturbed.
At this
point in our tale a description of the apparition is also probably
in order, if only to help in understanding my young friends
fascination with her. What is perhaps most surprising about the
reports of her appearance is that she seemed so completely normal.
A young woman of an age at which thoughts turn inevitably to
marriage, dressed in a knee length dress of some indefinable flower
pattern – the sort of garment suitable for attracting the admiring
gazes of young men on warm summer afternoons. Auburn hair fell
unfettered to bare shoulders and her feet were clad in simple
sandals. But in spite of these otherwise clear and consistent
descriptions, no one could provide any detail of her face. No
matter where one stood when encountering the vision, her head was
always turned away from the observer or oriented so that her hair
fell across her face, hiding her features from all possible
study.
For
Deacon the spirit on the stairs had long ago developed into
something of a cause for annoyance. He had nothing particularly
against the ghost, quite the reverse. It was just that, in the six
years since he had first entered the museum and in spite of the
many hours spent working with Sullivan in the laboratory, Matthew
had never seen so much as a glimpse of the famous
apparition.
At one
point he had come to the conclusion that he was the victim of a
huge and long running joke in which everyone, even his closest
friends, was involved. It is to his credit that, in spite of
flirting occasionally with this opinion, he never allowed it to
colour his underlying attitude towards his friends. Though his
patience was stretched when even the newest arrivals on the museum
staff might encounter the vision after only a few days in the
building. Eventually even Deacon himself became part of the tale,
as the one and only person in the building who had never seen the
ghost.