And then Melody’s head came up sharply as she heard a woman scream. Close at hand, it went on and on—a terrible sound, loud and raw and harsh. A single human voice, racked with unbearable agony and unspeakable horror. To hear it was to feel it claw at your heart. Melody’s first thought was that something had happened to Sally; but when she looked across the room to the reception desk, Sally was still sitting there, looking straight back at her. It was clear from the expression on Sally’s face that she wasn’t hearing what Melody was hearing. She checked her instruments again; but there was nothing. No changes in any of the readouts, no reactions to any of her scans. Her machines weren’t hearing anything either.
The screaming went on and on, filling the room with pain and grief long after a human voice should have collapsed, unable to sustain it. An awful sound . . . Melody had to grit her teeth against it. She would have liked to put her hands over her ears, to keep the screaming out; but she knew that wouldn’t help. This wasn’t the kind of sound you heard with your ears.
Whoever it was, Melody wanted desperately to help; but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell where the scream was coming from. Melody stabbed at her keyboards with stiff fingers, increasingly angrily, trying to force her machines to reveal what was going on . . . And then the screaming broke off. Melody stopped what she was doing, and realised for the first time how badly her hands were shaking. The sound had got to her. Not least because Melody thought she knew who it was; who had been screaming so loudly. There were no words in the sound; but somehow Melody was still sure she recognised the voice. Somehow she knew—Sally.
She looked again at the reception desk; and Sally wasn’t there. Her chair was empty. All that remained of Sally was her severed head, floating in mid air above the desk. Which was covered in blood, swimming with blood, dripping thickly off the edges. Sally’s head hadn’t been cut off; the raggedness of the wound, the torn stump, made it clear the head had been torn off. There were bloody wounds all over Sally’s face that made Melody think of an animal attack.
Sally’s eyes were still moving; and her mouth was still working though no sounds came out. She was still alive, still conscious and suffering. The eyes saw Melody looking at her and knew her. Recognised her. She didn’t try to call out to Melody for help. She just looked sad . . . for Melody. As though she knew something . . . And then the head was gone. The vision was gone. And Sally was back behind her desk again. Everything looked perfectly normal.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” said Sally. “Why are you looking at me like that? I mean, really! Cut it out, right now! You are freaking me out, big time!”
“Sorry,” said Melody. “Sorry. I . . .”
“Why are you so pale? Why are you breathing so hard?”
“I said I was sorry!”
“You saw something, didn’t you?” said Sally. She seemed almost . . . jealous. “What did you see?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Melody.
She tore her gaze away from the receptionist and made herself concentrate on the information flowing across the various screens before her. Still nothing; or at least, nothing that made any sense. Melody shook her head hard, to clear it. It didn’t help. She glared at her instruments.
Come on, guys! Get your act together! You are seriously letting the side down here . . .
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Jonathan led JC and Happy up the narrow back stairs to the top floor of Murdock House, chatting loudly and inconsequentially, almost as though he didn’t like the quiet and felt a need to fill it with friendly, human sounds. JC looked around him carefully; but nothing seemed out of place, out of the ordinary. When the top of the stairs finally spilled them out onto a long, wide landing that seemed to stretch the whole length of the house, it all seemed very still. Even peaceful—now that Jonathan had finally stopped talking. The station manager looked down the landing, holding himself tensely, as though prepared for something to happen. But nothing did.
“It’s quiet,” said Happy. “Too quiet . . .” And then he spoiled it by giggling.
“Sound-proofing,” said Jonathan, looking disapprovingly at Happy. “Our two main studios stand side by side. Can’t have any stray sounds getting out. Are you really a telepath?”
“Usually,” said Happy. “Something in this old house seems to be suppressing my talent. Holding it down, stifling it. Like having a blanket wrapped around my head, keeping the rest of the world out. I like it.”
“So you’re not . . . receiving anything?” said Jonathan.
Happy struck a dramatic pose. “I sense . . . unease!”
“Knock it off, Happy,” said JC. “You’ve been watching those Star Trek: Next Generation box sets again, haven’t you?”
“Everyone’s a critic,” said Happy.
JC looked down the length of the landing. Slats of light spilled in past the closed window-shutters. Electric lights burned reassuringly steadily, at regular intervals. And what shadows there were looked like just shadows. It was all very bare and basic, no frills. But Happy was right; even allowing for sound-proofed studios, it was too quiet. As though the whole upper floor were holding its breath, trying not to attract attention. JC looked to Happy and raised an interrogative eyebrow. Happy sighed, in his best and most practised put-upon way, and concentrated. Scowling fiercely. And then he relaxed suddenly, shrugged, and shook his head firmly.
“Not a thing, JC. And that is definitely not natural. I should be getting something . . .”
JC turned his gaze back to Jonathan, who stirred uncomfortably. The station manager looked like he wanted to be ushering JC and Happy along the landing, to the studios. Showing them things, getting the show on the road . . . But he couldn’t because JC was making it very clear he had no intention of moving yet.
“What was Murdock House like before you came here, Jonathan?” said JC. “Any history of hauntings or psychic phenomena? Any stories of bad things, from out of the Past?”
“It was an old family home!” said Jonathan. “No bad back-history, nothing out of the ordinary. I checked. All part of the due diligence before I bought the place. After all this started, I checked the archives in the local papers. There’s never been a murder here, no-one’s ever died here . . . Not even a bad accident!”
“How did you end up here?” Happy said suddenly. “At Radio Free Albion?”
“I had to come here,” Jonathan said steadily, “because I screwed up my previous life, very thoroughly, at the BBC. I had a drinking problem, back then. The problem was, I couldn’t get enough of it. I quit before they could fire me; and then I burned any number of bridges at a great many other places before I finally stopped blaming everyone else for my problems and stopped drinking. I used the last of my savings to buy Murdock House and refit it as a local radio station. My last chance to do the kind of work I’d always believed I was capable of. I used the last of my reputation to attract old friends and new talents, by promising them a chance to do something different, something that mattered. A chance to build a reputation, without the usual editorial interference. You have to understand: Radio Free Albion is my last chance. If I lose this station, I lose everything.”
By the time he finished talking, his voice was shaking, and he couldn’t meet their eyes. Happy looked at JC. This was usually when JC would say something kind and reassuring, to put the civilian at their ease. Except JC didn’t say anything. His attention seemed far away, lost in his own thoughts. Happy wondered if he should say something and quickly decided against it. He didn’t have the touch.
“There’s more to the history of radio than most people realise,” JC said finally. Not looking at anyone in particular. “It has been said, by people in a position to know, that the first people to build working radio sets weren’t interested in long-distance communication. They were pursuing something quite different. They were trying to build machines . . . that would allow them to talk with the dead.”
Jonathan cleared his throat, u
ncomfortably. “Well, that’s news to me. Did anyone ever succeed?”
“Depends on who you talk to,” said JC.
“I think I’d better take you to the first studio,” said Jonathan. “So you can talk to Captain Sunshine. He’s very interested in . . . things like that. You’ll like the Captain. Everyone does.”
He led the way down the landing, not looking to the left or the right, finally stopping before a door with a red light burning fiercely over it. Jonathan opened the door carefully and eased inside, gesturing urgently for JC and Happy to follow him in. They pretty much filled the crowded outer room, looking through a sound-proofed window at Captain Sunshine, busy at his work. Jonathan closed the door quietly. JC and Happy studied the Captain as he talked easily into his microphone. He seemed normal enough. There was no sign of a support engineer or an editor. The Captain had clearly been left to his own resources.
“That’s Malcolm Blackwood,” Jonathan said quietly. “Captain Sunshine when he’s on the air.”
The Captain was clearly an old-time hippie. He had the look and the clothes, and had to be at least in his late sixties. He wore his thinning grey hair pulled back in a long ponytail, hanging half-way down his back; but while his face was heavily wrinkled, it still possessed a certain cheerful, childlike quality. He wore a battered old Grateful Dead T-shirt, with the legend FORCE FEED YOUR HEAD, over extremely faded blue jeans. He sat relaxed before his microphone, talking easily and fluently. Jonathan knocked twice on the dividing window. The Captain looked round, nodded briefly, and flashed a smile and the peace sign to JC and Happy. All without interrupting his monologue. Jonathan hit a switch, so they could all hear what he was saying.
“Okay, okay, oh my brothers and sisters, that was the Doors, with ‘Riders on the Storm.’ Next up we have the ever-youthful Beach Boys, with their hymn to sun and sand and bright young things, ‘I wish they all could be California girls.’ Stick with the Captain, for the best music and the best feelings. This is Captain Sunshine, the Sixties Survivor, bringing you what you want, what you need, all sixties all the time, joyful sounds to get you through the dark days of this grim grey world they made for us to live in. I’ll be back, right after this . . .”
He cued up the Beach Boys, letting the needle drop lightly onto the album with the ease of long practice, then he sank back in his chair and gestured easily for the others to come in and join him. Jonathan led the way. The Captain smiled beatifically at his new visitors but made no move to get up or shake hands.
“I see you still prefer vinyl in this digital age,” said JC.
“Vinyl is cool,” said Captain Sunshine. “It has warmth, and soul, unlike the digital stuff. Vinyl gives a damn.”
He smiled and nodded sagely, and waited for JC to pick up the conversation again. Jonathan stood back and let JC get on with it.
“All sixties, all the time?” said JC. “Don’t you like anything more recent, Captain?”
“Welcome, oh my best beloveds, to the sounds of the sixties,” said Captain Sunshine. “The best music from that best of times. Balm for the soul in these troubled times.”
“We’re the Ghost Finders,” said JC, deciding to cut to the chase. Because somebody had to, and it clearly wasn’t going to be the Captain. “We’re here to help you with your supernatural problems.”
Captain Sunshine nodded wisely. His eyes didn’t seem to track all the time, and his attention faded in and out, even while he was talking. His gaze wandered round the studio, passing lightly over the other people in it; and then they came to JC and seemed to snap suddenly into focus.
“You’re here to do something; about the Voices from Beyond? Good. If you could keep them from butting in while I’m playing a classic, I’d be grateful.”
“You don’t seem too bothered by the . . . phenomena,” said JC.
“I’m not,” said the Captain. “Ghosts are groovy . . . a blast from the past! Perhaps it takes one survivor to appreciate another. I’m fascinated by the otherworldly. The natural and the supernatural are two sides of the same coin—the great groovy ride that is the life trip. But you have to do something because a lot of what’s been happening here is not good, man. Definite negative karma, baby.” He switched his knowing gaze to Happy. “You’re the mind-reader, aren’t you, man? I can tell. We all shine on . . . Are you here to help these poor lost souls find their way home, back to the Light? Lay the unquiet spirits to rest, at last?”
“I don’t think that’s what these voices want,” said Happy. “But we’ll do what we can.”
“That’s cool,” said the Captain. He looked at the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket, started to say something, found it all too much of an effort, and turned away. His gaze drifted off, lost on some far horizon. “You’ll have to excuse me, good people. My children are waiting. The Captain has a show to do.”
He cut back in just as the Beach Boys were finishing, with impeccable timing, and started talking quietly and confidently into his microphone again. Jonathan ushered JC and Happy out of the studio.
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
In the studio next door, Tom Foreman was immersed in the preparation for his upcoming Traffic report. This seemed to consist mostly of looking up at the ceiling with his mouth open and doodling on a note-pad. He stood up quickly when Jonathan brought in the Ghost Finders. Tom nodded and smiled, in a professional and uninvolved sort of way, a middle-aged man carrying rather more weight than was good for him. A worn-out man in a well-worn business suit. Jonathan made the introductions, and Tom insisted on shaking hands in a brisk, business-like way. He had a round face, hardly any hair left, and a sense that he was only talking to you out of the goodness of his heart. Because you were obviously keeping him from something far more important. He did his best to appear calm and at ease but didn’t fool anyone. He was jumpy, on guard, his gaze moving quickly from JC to Happy and back again, his professional smile flickering on and off like a faulty light bulb.
“You’re them, aren’t you? You’re the ghost-busting guys, the spiritual advisors. Good! Good . . . I really hope they can help you, Jonathan, because if they can’t, I am out of here. Please! Don’t say it. I’ve heard everything you have to say, several times; and I don’t care any more. Tonight is my last night. I’ve had enough. My nerves are shredded, my ulcers have ulcers, and the sleeping pills don’t work any longer.”
“Please, Tom,” said Jonathan. “Do you want me to beg? Because I’ll do it if that’s what it’ll take. Give me a little more time. These people are from the Carnacki Institute; they’re the real deal. They can fix this mess.”
Tom shrugged quickly. “Then they’ve got tonight to show what they can do. Because after we’ve shut down for the evening, I am out of here. Whatever it is that’s in this house with us, it doesn’t want us here. I’m hearing the voices everywhere now. I even hear them in my dreams.”
JC stepped forward, immediately intrigued. “Dreams can be significant in cases like these. Can you remember anything that seemed . . . out of the ordinary, in these dreams?”
“A sense of Time passing,” Tom said reluctantly. “A growing urgency; a feeling that we’re all running out of time. That someone’s trying desperately to warn us; and we’re not listening.”
They all waited; but he had nothing more to say. In fact, he seemed to feel that he’d said more than enough already.
“Have you seen anything, Tom?” said JC.
“No. And I don’t want to. That’s why I’m leaving.”
“You can’t go, Tom!” said Jonathan.
“Watch me.”
“Where would you go?” said Jonathan; and there was a sudden anger in his voice, almost spiteful.
“Anywhere would be good as long as I wouldn’t have to be scared all the time,” Tom said levelly, not rising to the emotional bait. “I mean it, Jonathan; I really can’t stand this place one day longer.”
“Well, before you run off like all the others, to join their Get a Backbone Cl
ub, I need you to do something for me,” said Jonathan. “There’s a young lady downstairs, very scientific, name of Melody Chambers. She’s with the Ghost Finders. I need you to sort out the voice recordings we made and take them down to her, for analysis. Think you can manage that?”
“I can do that,” said Tom. “Though what she thinks she can do with the recordings that I haven’t already tried . . .”
“She has a lot of equipment,” said JC.
“Loads and loads,” said Happy. “She could dig the secrets out of a sphinx, then ride it bareback up and down the street . . . Sorry. My metaphor kind of broke loose there. But she really is very good. Very scientific.”
“All right. Leave it to me,” said Tom. He looked steadily at JC. “You’ve met the Captain? He can cope with this shit because he isn’t all here, and I wish I wasn’t. But you’ve still got a treat in store. Meeting Felicity Legrand. If you’re looking for something really scary . . .”
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
Jonathan led JC and Happy almost to the end of the long landing, to the lounge, which turned out to be a reasonably comfortable setting with big chairs, heavy tables covered with piled-up newspapers and magazines, all kinds of junk food, and an assortment of energy drinks. A woman who had to be Felicity Legrand stood up quickly as they entered, springing up out of her chair, half-spilling the drink in her hand. She almost jumped out of her skin, then tried very hard to look like she hadn’t. She slammed her plastic cup down on the nearest table and glared at Jonathan.
“Next time, knock first!”
“Sorry,” said Jonathan, holding up both hands defensively, as though afraid she might attack him. “Allow me to present JC, and Happy; the Ghost Finders. You’re interviewing them later, for your show. Remember?”