Until Robert said from the stairway: ‘Please open the door, Nanny.’
To Ash’s horror, the Mariells’ aunt went forward and turned the key in the lock.
‘No, don’t let her in! ’ he implored.
Nanny Tess hesitated. She looked at Ash uncertainly, then at her nephew. Robert, still smiling benignly, gave a single nod of his head. Nanny Tess reached down to release the bolt.
With a movement that was surprising in its swiftness, she flung open one side of the double-door. A shadowy figure stood outside.
Ash felt something drain from him, a palpable loss, as if any warmth in his veins and tissue had been syphoned away, leaving his body leaden and cold. When he fled, it was awkwardly, his feet barely lifting from the floor. The stairs were mountainous, his attempt to climb them ponderous.
Robert continued to smile as Ash pushed by him. Simon, hands tucked nonchalantly into trouser pockets, sniggered.
Ash used the rail to draw himself upwards. Now that he had consciously forced himself into flight, his fear in some self-preserving way began to overwhelm the stupefying dread so that strength, enfeebled though it was, gradually returned and his efforts gained momentum. He stumbled near the top, but kept going, using hands and knees to drag himself forward, scrabbling over the last step, rising to stagger down the darkened corridor towards the bedroom they had given him.
The door was open and once inside he slammed it shut, quickly locking it. He leaned his soaked forehead against the painted wood and tried to control his rapid breathing so that he could listen for noises outside. He was certain he could hear approaching footsteps.
His eyes closed for a moment as if in supplication.
He shoved himself away from the door and tugged at the hefty chest of drawers nearby, sliding it over, using sideways to and fro movements to make the journey easier, jamming the chest against the door as a barricade, creating a defence that he hoped would be impossible for anyone outside to get through. He slapped down the light switch and the bulb in the centre of the room flickered and wavered beneath its shade before settling to a dim glow.
He trod backwards from the door, his gaze never leaving it, retreating to the other side of the room; as far away from the barricade as possible.
Soon there was the familiar tapping from outside.
His name was whispered.
‘Leave me alone!’ he shouted, hysteria close enough to raise the pitch of his voice. ‘Just leave me alone!’
His cry became plaintive, almost a moan, as he sank miserably into the armchair opposite the door.
‘Just leave me alone . . .’
The whispering stopped.
28
Nothing stirred in the house called Edbrook.
No footsteps along the dingy corridors and hallways; no movement inside dusty rooms save for the scratchy scurryings of vermin who nestled in the sagging underbellies of sofas, or the sluggish tottering of spiders drugged by the late season’s climate; no inner breeze nudged curtains or drapes. The stone walls held their peace. The dawn hung colourlessly against windows.
In an upstairs room a man slept fretfully in an armchair facing a barricaded door.
David Ash still wore his rumpled overcoat, its collar turned up around his neck. His bearded chin sagged against his chest. His face was sallow in the dim light, features heavy with fatigue, his brow troubled by the images of his sleep in which . . .
. . . the boy wakes and listens to the whispered call. ‘David . . .’
He leaves the bedroom, drawn by the gentle voice and descends the stairs to the candlelit place below. A coffin stands at the far end of the long room.
The boy approaches, his eyes enlarged and fear-stricken. He peers down into the silk-lined casket.
The girl who lies there is not his sister.
She is older, and she is beautiful in death.
Her eyes open.
She smiles.
The smile corrupts to a grin.
Christina reaches as if to embrace him.
She whispers:
‘David . . .’
Ash awoke with a choked cry, the startled jerk of his body upsetting the empty vodka bottle by his foot. He looked around as if mystified by his surroundings. Vapid light from the window integrated drearily with the ceiling light so that there was an oddness to the room, a lack of depth to its shadings, a neutrality to its brighter tones. He blinked to ease the soreness of his eyes, knowing without seeing that they were red-rimmed; he felt the puffiness of their lids. Ash swallowed, throat dry, running his fingers through the tangle of his hair as he did so.
His hand stopped when he recalled the dream; and he moaned faintly when he saw the heavy chest of drawers rammed against the bedroom door, remembering why it was there.
Ash held his breath, forcing himself to listen, his hands quivering slightly on the arms of the chair. There was only silence from outside and somehow he sensed that peculiar vacuity extended beyond the corridor: the whole house was quiet as if, like him, it was holding its breath.
He lurched from the seat and went to the barricade, leaning on the chest for support, listening further, waiting for any shift in atmosphere, the slightest bump or scuffle from outside. There was nothing.
He walked unsteadily back to the window, his coordination slow in returning, senses not yet fully alert, and looked out at the gardens below. A fine drizzle of rain was sending up a thin mist from the ground so that the statues out there were vague, ill-defined forms.
Resolution came to Ash as the dulling effects of his troubled sleep gradually dispersed.
Taking the holdall from the wardrobe, he began throwing clothing and other personal items into it, not bothering with neatness, bundling them in haphazardly, pushing everything tight to make room, his efforts gaining momentum, becoming a rush. He threw in his notes and diagrams from the small bureau he’d used as a desk, then zipped up the bag, muttering when loose clothing snagged the catch, but unwilling to spend time disengaging it. He stood on tiptoe to reach the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and laid it open on the bed. He studied its emptiness for a few moments, knowing he would have to retrieve the equipment from various parts of the house.
Ash looked over at the door again.
Cautiously he went to the chest of drawers and gripped its edges. Summoning up his strength, he heaved it aside. One hand still on top of the chest to steady himself, Ash nervously regarded the key in the lock of the door. He had to force himself to turn it. And then had to force himself to open the door.
Nanny Tess was standing outside.
‘Jesus—’ he said almost as a breath.
She stepped into the light, her face distraught, seeming more aged, her features more deeply lined. There was a pallid greyness to her skin, the lack of colour that sometimes comes with long illness.
Her voice was urgent, but kept low, as if she were afraid that others might hear. ‘You must leave immediately. You must go right away, Mr Ash.’
‘Where are they?’ he asked her, his own voice hushed.
‘Never mind that.’ It was almost a reprimand. ‘Don’t ask any questions of me, just leave this house now. It’s no longer a game – it’s become more than that. Something has happened that’s changed everything. They’re angry with you, Mr Ash. Terribly angry.’
She leaned back to glance out the door, as though to make sure the corridor was still empty. She bent towards him again, her manner conspiratorial. ‘There’s an early morning train that stops at the village station to deliver mail. You’ve got time to catch it if you hurry.’
Ash needed no further bidding. He returned to the bed to collect the holdall and his eyes briefly lingered on the open suitcase. He turned away, leaving it lying there; somehow the equipment, the very tools of his trade, no longer seemed important.
Gripping the holdall, he made for the door and stopped in surprise when he discovered the old lady had gone. He went out into the corridor. And became very still.
The dog was watching him from th
e far end, a bunched, threatening shape.
Ash slowly moved away, treading warily, afraid that any hasty action, any hint of panic, would set the animal on him. Its growl rumbled down the corridor and Ash willed himself to back off smoothly, to do nothing that would excite the dog.
Seeker began to stalk him.
Ash’s grip on the holdall tightened. If the brute charged he would push the bag into those powerful jaws, use it as a shield. What then? How long could he hold the dog off? If he returned to the bedroom he would be trapped. Perhaps he should call out, bring Nanny Tess back to him. She might be able to control Seeker. But then why hadn’t she waited? Was that part of the plan, to lure him from the bedroom and leave him at the mercy of this beast? Christ, were they all crazy in this house?
Seeker kept a measured distance, pacing its prey with matching steps. Two dull pinpoints of light were all that Ash could see of its eyes in the dimness of the corridor; its massive head was tucked close into muscled shoulders so that it seemed a shapeless mass was gliding forward.
Without taking his attention from the trailing beast, Ash knew he was nearing the gallery overlooking the hallway. Had he looked he would have caught sight of the figure rising up from the stairway. Only when he heard a peculiarly wheezed chuckle did he glance over his shoulder.
Simon was at the top of the stairs. Although it wasn’t quite Simon.
Even in the poor light Ash could discern the deathly paleness of Christina’s brother, almost as though his face and hands had been dusted with fine white powder. And his skin was withered, puckered and blemished in parts as though rotting. Beneath the collar of his open shirt, his neck was discoloured with purple bruising, vivid against his unnatural pallor, and the flesh there was deeply indented, his head tilted awkwardly to one side.
Despite his unsightly appearance, Simon was smiling pleasantly.
For no other reason than utter shock, Ash hurled the bag at the figure at the top of the stairway, the sudden movement provoking the dog behind him into launching itself forward.
Ash heard the scuffling of its paws, the altered pitch of its snarling, and did not waste time in turning towards the charge. He slid over the balustrade, grabbing the rail as his body began to fall. He clung there, feet kicking space, until Seeker’s jaws appeared above him, its teeth snapping air. Ash’s hold loosened and he plunged, clutching momentarily at the lip of the balcony, but unable to sustain the grip. He fell to the floor, landing heavily and gasping at the jarring pain in his ankle.
He lay there on his back, struggling for breath, his whole body numbed by the fall. As the numbness matured to an aching tenderness, he became conscious of the wisps of smoke curling in the air. He listened to the distant crackle of fire and felt – although it might have been imagined – heat against his face.
Now he heard padding footsteps on the stairs.
Ash rolled to a kneeling position, pushing himself upright, the pain in his ankle severe. He glimpsed Seeker as it rounded the post at the foot of the stairs, skidding on the unswept floor, but quickly regaining its balance and bounding forwards.
Ash hobbled away, knowing his only chance was to put a barrier between himself and the rushing animal. The kitchen was too far along the hall – he would never make it. He pushed open the nearest door. The cellar door.
A wall of blinding flame sent him staggering backwards, his arms raised to protect his face.
But he had already caught sight of something moving in the fire below. A figure had been climbing the cellar steps, rising slowly as if oblivious of the heat. Ash parted his arms so that he could look again, bewildered, not believing what he had seen.
The figure had nearly reached the top step and it was ablaze, a person totally engulfed in bleached, billowing flame. And yet its countenance, the reddened, boiling mess that was its face, was familiar.
The human torch that emerged from the cellar was Robert Mariell.
29
Seeker stopped, twin fiery images dancing in its liquid eyes as though the man burned inside the dog’s own skull. It cowered and began to shiver; from its slathering jaws there now came piteous whining.
Ash waited no longer. He limped from the furnace that was the cellar, away from the flaming, blistering figure and its stench of roasting.
The dog shook itself, aware that its quarry was escaping. It warily skirted the enflamed man, head hung low until it was past, then gave chase once more.
Ash paused only to throw a hall chair at his pursuer. The missile bounced in front of Seeker, momentarily interrupting the dog’s flight. Simon Mariell was now at the foot of the stairs, his grotesqueness lit by the incineration of his elder brother, his derisory laughter hissing through a strangulated throat.
Ash dodged into the kitchen, twisting to swing the door shut behind him. It was almost closed when Seeker’s jaws appeared and its teeth locked onto the sleeve of his coat.
He tried to pull his arm free, keeping pressure on the door, pushing it hard against the animal’s muzzle. Ash yelled when he finally tore his arm away, the dog toppling backwards into the hall with scraps of material in its mouth. Ash slammed the door shut and stood back as Seeker launched itself at the other side, the timber screeching in its frame, but mercifully holding. There followed a frantic scratching against the wood.
Through the squalid and littered kitchen hurried Ash, his injured ankle jarring at every step. He reached the back door and wrenched it open.
Cold morning air rushed at him as if welcoming him to freedom. Ash limped outside, glorying in the light rain on his face, sucking in pure air, cleansing his lungs of Edbrook’s malodour. He had broken out and the liberation pumped energy into his system. He wanted to scream with the pure relief.
It was not until he was at the edge of the terrace that he dared look back at the house. In the rain its stone was even darker, windows even blacker. Still, it was just a house, bricks, timber and glass, a man-made place and nothing more than that. An old building that appeared weary with its own age, made sinister to him only because he knew of the aberration within its walls. He wiped raindrops from his eyes. It was all impossible, all unreal; yet he was not dreaming.
But the very real nightmare continued when the glass of a lower window shattered outwards and the demon-shape of Seeker hurtled through.
Ash hobbled down the steps from the terrace into the gardens and loped along the flagstone path, realizing he would never outdistance the pursuing dog. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that Seeker had reached the top of the steps. The dog began an unhurried descent, as if aware its prey could not escape. Its mouth was wet with white-flecked spittle, its coat shiny with rain; it slunk along the path, head hunched into shoulders that quivered with pent-up force, jaws opening in a deep snarling.
Ash confronted the stalking beast, backing away as he had before, having no choice but to play the cruel cat and mouse game, for he was too afraid to run. The beast would maul him badly, there was no doubting that; the question was whether it was savage – or powerful – enough to kill him. The rain failed to cool the clammy heat of Ash’s body.
Seeker was only yards away, the distance between them quickly narrowing. Ash half-crouched, continuing to move backwards, frightened but angry, too, that he should be so intimidated by a dog. An obscenity formed on his lips, a useless but defiant oath to hurl at the creature. Before he could scream it though, his heel touched something solid. He could move no further: the low wall of the stagnant pond was behind him. Seeker tensed its muscles, ready to attack.
The water behind Ash erupted.
He stumbled round, the animal forgotten. Rising over him was a vision so terrifying that he collapsed to his knees.
What was left of her hair trailed to her shoulders in sodden, tousled strands. The long, bedraggled gown she wore was stained with slime from the pond, much of the material hanging in scorched tatters around her, slithering green vegetation clinging to her body as though it had attached itself while she lay dormant beneath
the water’s surface.
Seeker howled and sank its belly against the path.
She clutched the edge of the wall with scummy, shrunken hands, one of them only blackened gristle, her rictus grin fixed on Ash. Almost half her body was burned raw, much of it charred brittle. As it had the night before, one huge, exposed eye stared unblinkingly at him.
She dragged herself from the pond, water draining from her to create a puddle around her scarred feet. He had fallen away as she emerged, and now she loomed over and reached out her arms towards him, slick, thin weeds draped like bracelets from her wrists.
Ash shuffled his body away in abhorrence and what was left of her rotted lips curled back: the scratchy intonation that came from them might have been his name.
She screeched as her darkened side abruptly burst into flame.
A whiteness, a total banishment of thought, caused by the shock wiped his mind. Sheer reaction drove him to his feet. Ash ran from the writhing figure, the agonized shrieks accompanying him as though inside his head, just behind that screen of whiteness. And as he drew away, the blankness started to disintegrate, her cries becoming louder as they pushed through the fading barrier; yet there was also laughter, a distant mocking sound, no more than an echo.
He slipped on the damp grass, pain shooting up from his ankle to his groin. He picked himself up, the searing spasm of little consequence, and stumbled across neglected flower beds, through bushes, making for the trees, seeking shelter, the screams and the laughter now gone from his head, left behind in the gardens to diminish, though never quite to fade.
The rain began to fall more heavily, making his journey treacherous. His hands were held before him to brush away leafy branches as he entered the woodland. They guided him around trees, his vision blurred by the rain and perhaps his own tears. He was sure there were others in the woods with him, for he could hear snickering, their soft derisive calls; occasionally he caught sight of their flitting forms as they kept pace with him, though at a distance, among the trees.