And those who did manage to escape the burning of Comraich would hear those screams in their mind every night when it grew dark. Every night until they, themselves, passed away.
Osril Ubutu was tonight dressed in full East African tribal dress and his figure dominated the circular VIP drawing room on the castle’s fourth floor. He would have preferred to have worn his buff-coloured army uniform, with its shoulder epaulettes and the chest decorated with its myriad military medals.
Early in the evening, he’d knocked on doors of various suites and in his booming voice had invited each of the occupants to join him in a drink. Most agreed that a good stiff measure was what they needed, for some of them had already become virtually immune to their lithium regimens. Yes, a strong snifter and cheerful gossip would keep thoughts of hauntings and other such nonsense away for the rest of the night.
And so several of his fellow VIP guests had accepted the despot’s invitation. With his great booming voice, Ubutu was certainly the centre of attention in the drawing room that night, for despite his ogreish appearance in his voluminous white cotton kanzu, he was gifted with immense charisma, and he had many interesting – and brutal – stories to impart.
At first, the laughter was quite nervous, but as time wore on and more guests joined the gathering, and as alcohol and medication mixed, the laughter grew more raucous as the tales told by Ubutu became more outlandish. Then, halfway through a particularly gruesome story involving a novel use of garden shears, a distant explosion had caused the crystal chandelier to vibrate and tinkle.
Ubutu and his intrigued listeners looked around in puzzlement, then further, closer blasts caused them to freeze on the spot. But when the biggest explosion thus far rocked the whole room, causing some guests to fall to their knees, the real panic began.
Some of the men ran towards the open French doors, which suddenly slammed shut and refused to open again, despite the efforts of several beefy shoulders.
Osril Ubutu stood stock-still in the middle of the room, the chandelier continuing to rattle above him. His heavy-featured face was set in a mask of horror, for it was he who had not wanted to be alone on this night, he who had truly believed the castle was haunted by the spirits of the angry dead. Because he’d already experienced the fury of the demons, the ghosts of those he had killed – they’d visited his dreams in the past, in his own bed, in his own palace. And he had consulted witch doctors, who had purged him with foul-smelling mysterious herbs that burned slowly on earthen fires, as they danced around him, ululating and chanting. But the nightmares and waking visions had resumed, if anything more strongly than before. He’d known then that the last witch doctor who had attended him would join the ranks of the decapitated others who had displeased him and whose rat-nibbled heads now lay in the palace cellars.
But Ubutu had never felt such trepidation as he was feeling now. He anticipated with fear the spiritual vengeance of every person he had ever murdered, executed, or tortured.
His gaze revolved towards an elderly but distinguished-looking lady with elegantly coiffured grey hair sitting nearby. She had left his company minutes before and now silently quaffed a dry sherry from a long narrow glass. Her exquisite jewellery failed to sparkle under the shifting light.
Ubutu didn’t know what had made him turn to look at her. She seemed oblivious, lost in her own world of sherry and anti-depressants.
When she noticed he was staring at her she shifted uneasily in her red-cushioned giltwood chair, one of many set around the circular room’s outer wall. As they stared at one another, Ubutu felt something emanating from him. Something bad. Something that even he was scared by.
And then, to the dictator’s astonishment, the woman’s high-piled hair ignited. As if unaware, she continued to stare back at him unperturbed. He watched with interest, wondering whether she would scream when the fire reached her scalp, but before it could do so, her whole body burst into flames. They burned blue at first, but as they rose into the air, cocooning her still-seated figure, they turned yellow, then yellow and orange. Yet still she did not move, as if paradoxically frozen, her blank expression plainly seen through the column of thin fire.
Others in the room began to notice and gape. And as they did, Ubutu switched his gaze to the empty chair next to the woman, and was not entirely surprised to see that it too ignited, and then the next one and the next. Slowly he turned his body through three hundred and sixty degrees until, one by one, every giltwood chair around the perimeter of the drawing room was ablaze.
The burning woman’s husband had rushed to help, but he could only watch as her stiff body charred and the delicate sherry glass melted over her blistering fingers. The heat turned her black and parts of her fell away to burn on the floor. Finally, her charcoaled body toppled stiffly from the chair to scorch the rich carpet.
As Ubutu glanced at the man he screamed and dropped to his knees, his clothing already burning. The dictator looked up and the long window hangings lit up as one, flames searing the walls and rolling across the ceiling. The exalted throng, glasses of alcohol long-since discarded, desperately tried to reach the windows, hoping to make their escape around the balcony, but were beaten back by the flames. People all around the room were falling to the floor, coughing violently from the heat that burned their throats, for these strange flames produced no smoke. The lucky ones suffocated as oxygen was consumed by the flames’ prodigious greed. The unlucky ones became part of the fire that Ubutu was spreading like a contagious disease, their expensive lounge suits quickly vaporizing into fiery tatters. The room soon became one huge conflagration.
Tears flowing from his heat-irritated eyes, Osril Ubutu could only stand rooted to the spot and watch the blazing demons as they danced around him. He snarled at their taunts, tried to spit into their phantom faces, but his mouth and throat were far too parched to raise any saliva. Instead, he roared defiantly like the lion he knew he was.
Then eventually, realizing even a lion such as he could not defeat these devils, he let out a mighty warrior’s cry. He saw that his kanzu had caught alight at the hem and the fire was about to engulf him, so he ran forward through the inferno. He dived straight through the flames that masked the French windows, smashing the melting glass. Ubutu, now a blazing ball of fire, flew over the low balustrade outside and plummeted towards the treacherous rocks far, far below.
His booming warrior’s roar accompanied him all the way. And so did the demons in his head.
86
‘Which way?’ Delphine asked anxiously, trying not to clutch Louis’ hand too tightly in case she bruised it.
‘The tower stairway,’ Ash answered on the move. ‘We can get down to the ground floor that way. But we have to make a stop so that I can collect some gear that might help us.’
They hurried on, flinching each time they heard a fresh explosion and the vibrations ran through their legs. He could sense that these explosions were definitely man-made. Ash asked himself who the hell could have set bombs. Someone taken by the idea of destroying the ancient curse? Or just somebody who had a grudge against Comraich? Whoever, this person knew his stuff: it sounded like Comraich Castle was going to be demolished and anyone trapped inside would be crushed or burned to death.
They turned corner after corner, found themselves in smoky hallways and passages, and Ash would have been lost in the maze had it not been for Delphine, who always seemed certain of which direction they should take.
The grey acid mist hung from the ceilings, acrid-smelling and ominous. On several occasions they passed large rooms that were completely ablaze. The castle was fitted with an elaborate sprinkler system, but for some reason it had failed to trigger.
Finally, and to Ash’s great relief, they arrived at the tower’s spiral staircase.
‘Better if we go in single file and keep to the right-hand wall where the steps are widest,’ Delphine said.
Smoke was being drawn upwards, the round tower was acting as a chimney for the fires below. Soon, a
ll three had streaming eyes, but Ash, leading, kept them going. He could hear Louis’ hacking coughs and he hoped the young man’s frail body would not give up. Ash tried to maintain a steady pace, giving neither Louis nor Delphine time to be overwhelmed by all that was happening. Fortunately, bright moonlight shone through the slitted windows, giving them some help in seeing the way through the smoke. However, it was growing darker the lower they went.
‘Delphine,’ Ash called back. ‘Have you still got the Maglite I gave you earlier?’
‘In my bag.’
‘Can you pass it to me? It’s getting harder to see down here.’
Down they travelled, the smoke becoming denser. They dreaded each turn in case fire was blocking the way. Going back up would be pointless.
Louis’ coughing was becoming worse and Ash stopped for a moment. He dug into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a clean white handkerchief. ‘Hold this over your mouth and nose,’ he told the young prince. ‘It might just help a little.’
The cowled figure nodded and obeyed. Delphine drew out a smaller handkerchief of her own and followed suit. With a grunt of satisfaction, Ash continued the descent and for the first time realized he was limping. Adrenaline had veiled the pain earlier but now, each time he stepped on his injured left leg, it felt like a hot rod of iron had shot from his heel right up to the knee. He tried to ignore it but couldn’t help wincing a little every time he put his left foot to the floor.
Smoke drifted upwards and occasionally the investigator saw a blackened orb amidst it, the smoke itself seeming to curl into fiendish faces, too vague to focus upon but there all the same, though never for longer than a moment or two. The malevolence that was inside Comraich Castle had acted as a catalyst for evil spirits; a kind of gateway, giving the incorporeal phantoms a semblance of fluctuating form. A doorway had been opened up, allowing entities through, and he prayed – literally prayed – that it could be closed again, but only after the wraiths had been banished to their rightful dimension.
Finally, Ash, Delphine and Louis found themselves on the castle’s second floor. Ash debated whether to leave Delphine and the prince to wait for him, but decided they would be safer together.
‘Keep low and follow me,’ Ash told the others. ‘Try and stay beneath the smoke.’
Bent double, the smoke haze flowing only an inch or so above their heads, they stumbled along the corridor. Ash turned to see Louis gripping Delphine’s hand, doing his best to keep up. At the far end of the corridor, the main landing was an inferno.
They reached Delphine’s room and came to a halt. ‘Bring anything you might need,’ Ash instructed. ‘Not too much, though! Maybe just some scarves and the muffler. Soak them with water and tie one around your lower face, making sure you cover your nose. Do the same for Louis. Oh, and you’d be better swapping those high heels for something more practical, too.’
‘I’ll change into my boots.’
‘Perfect,’ said Ash. And just as sexy, he thought.
‘David.’ Delphine’s narrowed, smoke-irritated eyes stared into his own. ‘You’ve been limping all the way. Are you hurt?’
‘It’s where the wildcat clawed me, I think. Believe me, I’m covered in bruises all over, so this injury doesn’t matter much – it’s company for the rest. Look, take back the torch in case you and Louis need it.’
He extended his arm, the Maglite in his fist.
‘Louis?’
‘Lewis is really Louis. I’ll explain later.’
She looked puzzled, but to Ash’s relief didn’t press him for an explanation. She refused to take the Maglite: ‘There’s a full moon out tonight and it always shines directly into my room. Besides, the lights still seem to be working, even if they’re only dim.’
‘Okay. Be as quick as you can and meet me in my room. You know which one?’
‘Oh yes.’
He smiled, despite the danger they were in. He opened the door to her room and peeked in to make sure it was safe. She’d been right about the moonlight: everywhere inside was bathed in soft silver light, although it made the shadows deeper.
He gently pushed her and Louis through. ‘Don’t be long.’ With that, he was off, bending low and limping, his left hand running along the corridor’s wood panelling. It felt warm to the touch and he was conscious of the fact that the whole castle would go up like a tinderbox once the flames took hold. At least he hadn’t heard any more explosions for a while and he could only hope there would be none.
Ash reached his room and opened the big suitcase still on the luggage rest at the end of the rumpled bed (no housemaid today, then).
The first item he took out was a large waterproof Maglite, heavier and more powerful than the one he’d just offered to Delphine. Next he drew out a handful of light sticks, the kind he’d used in the tunnel beneath the castle. He had to dig deep to find the last object, though he hoped he would never have to use it in anger: a combat knife, the foot-long blade partly serrated on its top edge.
Satisfied, he transferred the items to his shoulder bag. As he surveyed what was left of his ghost-hunting equipment he wryly reflected there was no need for it now; ghosts were undoubtedly present in Comraich. They had found their ‘window area’, their ‘magnetic’ human presence here in the castle – the old woman in the cell opposite the lift three levels underground, the offspring of Adolf Hitler and Unity Mitford. The investigator was sure that she was the conduit that had drawn these sub-beings into the castle, though of course all the wickedness that had taken place there had only served to enhance the attraction of Comraich, as had the fact that it was built on a ley-line junction. And on top of that, there was the centuries-old curse – the Mullachd. It must have played its part too. So far as the spirit world was concerned, it was a perfect storm.
Ash pulled the strap of the bag over his head and across his chest and clipped the combat knife’s leather sheath to his belt. The door opened and Delphine and Louis entered, both still ducking from the thickening smoke in the corridor.
Ash grunted his approval when he saw the two of them were wearing soggy wet scarves that revealed only their frightened eyes.
‘Which way do we go?’ Delphine asked in earnest.
For one fleeting second, an idea passed through the investigator’s mind, but he dismissed it almost as quickly as it came to him. ‘There might have been a chance to jump from a window, especially if I lowered you down as far as I could by hanging out, but I don’t think Louis would make it.’
‘I don’t think I’d make it,’ Delphine scolded him with a brief smile. ‘Have you seen how high up we are?’
‘Just a thought.’
He went to the open door and peered out both ways. The fire was really taking hold at the far end. Flames were beginning to roll along the ceiling, an almost mesmerizing sight in its awesome beauty: the colours, the curls, like a fiery torrent of water. Within the turbulent smoke that came off the flames were many black orbs. As they raced through the smoke, they bobbed and weaved, pulsating, preparing to form a fuller shape, an apparition, a stage-four manifestation. Ash sensed some had made that transition already.
Although the orbs were unclear and like wispy streaks as they tore along the corridor, Ash could just make out monotone, malformed Scottish warriors, indistinct claymores raised in insubstantial fists, a hint of colourless kilts over incomplete legs. He snapped out of it when he felt the psychologist by his side.
‘Oh dear God,’ he heard her say in a breathless whisper. ‘Those black orbs: they’re like the ones that invaded the office a few days ago.’
He realized with relief she could not see all that he saw.
‘We’ll go back the way we came,’ he said over the rumbling sound. ‘The spiral staircase should get us to the ground level at least.’
‘It will,’ she said, handing him the sodden muffler. He quickly pulled it over his face, then turned to them both. ‘Stick close behind me. We’ll have to move faster than before.’ He glanced up at the corr
idor’s ceiling as if to make the point.
The rolling fire was almost over their heads.
87
Andrew Derriman clawed his way through the mass of struggling bodies at the bottom of the grand stairway, aware that he had to bring some order to the panicking mass of staff and guests. Why were the emergency ceiling sprinklers not in operation? The main alarm had hardly sounded; had that been sabotaged too?
The beleaguered general manager finally pushed his way through the fallen bodies. The path to the castle’s main entrance was blocked by fire and the hall was rapidly filling with people. Before long there would be a deadly crush. He saw Veronica and Gerrard, still at their station though looking somewhat bemused behind the long wooden reception counter.
‘Veronica!’ he called cupping one hand around his mouth. ‘Open the counter flap and the office door, then take them through to the side exit. Try to keep them calm! Make them form a line, two by two.’ Although scared, he had not stuttered once.
All around Derriman people were picking their way between prone bodies. He directed them towards the counter, the varnish of which was beginning to bubble. He held up an arm to block the heat and saw that the flames were only a short distance from the end of the counter.
‘Hurry, please hurry! There’s a way out through the offices back there – Veronica and Gerrard will show you. But please don’t panic, there’s plenty of time!’
The last assurance was a lie, but it didn’t matter anyway: guests were already scrambling over the hot reception counter, barging their way through. Derriman had stopped to help those who had tumbled down the stairs, but he was soon knocked sideways by those still on their feet. He fell awkwardly, skidding across the marble flooring. As he lay there, supporting himself on one elbow, he surveyed the mayhem before him.
Derriman understood their alarm, but the Comraich clientele, by most standards a fairly refined bunch, had turned into a scrabbling, screaming mob that cared nothing for their fellows. A man fell screaming from a landing above and Derriman closed his eyes so that he would not see him hit the unyielding marble floor. But he could not ignore the wet sound as the body landed, nor the sharp crunch of broken bones.