Spirits from Beyond

  JC looked thoughtfully at Brook; but the barman stood his ground. The expression on the barman’s face made it very clear that he had no intention of going into the room. JC could go in if he wished . . . but on his own head be it. Brook would be staying on the landing. JC shrugged quickly, gave Brook another reassuring smile, and strode confidently in. On the grounds that there was nowhere he feared to tread. Because this, after all, was just another haunting; and JC knew what to do with ghosts.

  * * *

  Once inside the end room, JC immediately understood why Brook had first mistaken the haunted room for another Timeslip. The ghost girl hadn’t only brought herself back; she’d manifested her old surroundings as well. The room reeked of the 1970s. The decade that taste forgot, or at least gave up on. JC recognised the era immediately, from the terrible earth brown and faded yellow colours, the Laura Ashley wallpaper, and the big, chunky furniture. JC stood in front of the open doorway and looked around, taking his time. He could sense Brook hovering behind him, peering in from a safe distance. Daylight from some past Time poured in through the window, filling the room with a cheerful, midday glow. It all looked very real, very solid, for one dead girl’s memory.

  Lydia was sitting in a chair by an empty fire-place; and JC knew her immediately for a ghost. She looked real enough, solid enough; but you only had to look at her to know she wasn’t alive. Lydia sat at her ease in an overstuffed chair, reading a copy of Nova magazine with a photo of a young Germaine Greer on the cover. She seemed completely absorbed in her reading, so JC cleared his throat politely. Lydia raised her head, looked around, then smiled easily at JC. She seemed a little surprised but not in any way disturbed or frightened, at finding a strange man in her room. As though she knew she had nothing to be scared of. She started to get up, and JC gestured quickly for her to remain seated.

  Lydia looked to be seventeen, eighteen—a pleasant-looking girl. Average height, perhaps a little heavier than current fashions would allow, with a broad, pretty face and a great mop of curly black hair that tumbled down to her shoulders. She wore jeans and a blue-and-white blouse, and a pale blue bandana across her brow to hold her hair in place. She studied JC openly, reacting to his appearance quite normally, as though both of them were real.

  “Hi!” said JC. “Sorry to intrude; I must have the wrong room. I’m JC Chance, visiting Bishop’s Fording.”

  “That’s all right,” said the ghost girl. “I’m Lydia. My dad runs this place. Are you staying here long?”

  “Just passing through,” said JC.

  “Is my father looking after you all right?” said Lydia. “We don’t get many staying guests these days.”

  “It’s been an interesting visit, so far,” said JC. “Lots to see and do.”

  They both smiled and chatted easily together for a while. JC did his best to be kind and gentle with her and not say anything that might challenge her view of reality. She clearly didn’t know there was anything unnatural going on. She didn’t know she was dead. Didn’t remember hanging herself, in this very room. Didn’t know the father she talked about so easily had been dead for decades. She still thought she was another teenage girl, with everything to live for. Though JC did notice that she didn’t ask him some very obvious questions, like why was he wearing sunglasses indoors.

  “I’m waiting for my boyfriend, Adrian,” Lydia said cheerfully. “Though . . . it does feel like I’ve been waiting for him for some time now . . . I hope he’ll be here soon.”

  JC smiled and nodded. He didn’t see any point in telling her she’d already been waiting forty years.

  Lydia frowned for the first time. “I hope nothing’s happened to Adrian . . .”

  “I’m sure he’s not far off,” said JC. “Are you all right, here?”

  “I suppose so,” said Lydia. “I’m comfortable, I’ve got everything I need . . . Though every now and again the door opens, and this old man looks in. He isn’t any bother, he never says anything; but he always looks so sad . . .”

  “Do you recognise him?” JC said carefully.

  “Oh no,” said Lydia. “He’s far too old to be anyone I’d know!” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there is a good chance that he might be a ghost! This pub is famous for them, you know.”

  “Yes,” said JC. “I know.”

  “Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one,” said Lydia, grinning.

  “You’re not frightened of ghosts?” said JC.

  “No,” said Lydia. “I don’t know why anyone would be. They’re just people, after all.”

  “I’ve bothered you long enough,” said JC. “I’ll leave you alone now. Nice to meet you, Lydia.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Chance,” said Lydia. “You couldn’t do me a favour; could you? Take a look down the corridor and tell me if you see my Adrian coming?”

  “Yes,” said JC. “I’ll take a look.”

  He left the room and shut the door behind him. His last glimpse of Lydia was of her returning to the magazine she’d been reading for forty years. Out on the landing, Adrian Brook stood with his back to the door, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold back tears.

  * * *

  After a while, they headed back down the landing, to the top of the stairs. It took JC a while to realise that there was something wrong with the light. The electric light bulbs were still burning steadily; but the nature of the light had changed. It had deepened, into an unpleasant orange-red glow, like sunlight that had soured and gone off. The sound of their footsteps had changed, too—softer, muffled, as though the floor-boards underfoot had gone rotten. The air on the landing smelled flat and dusty, like air in a room that’s been left shut up for too long. And, one by one, the doors ahead of them began to open, swinging slowly inwards; without making even the slightest sound. They hung back, invitingly, offering access to the rooms beyond, and all that they contained. Brook started to say something, and JC put a steadying hand on his arm.

  “Don’t look into any of the rooms,” JC said quietly. “Look straight ahead and keep walking. There’s nothing in any of these rooms that you or I would want to see.”

  They walked on down the landing. As they passed each door, it slammed loudly shut behind them, in a bad-tempered sort of way. JC kept his hand on Brook’s arm, squeezing it reassuringly now and again. He didn’t want the barman panicking, so close to the stairs. He had a very strong feeling that this would be a very bad place to show weakness. He remembered Brook’s telling how Space itself had become unhinged, here on the landing, stretching away forever . . . JC didn’t want to have to cope with that.

  They’d almost made it to the top of the stairs when there was a sudden movement in the last room they passed; and JC shot a quick glance through the open doorway, in spite of himself. He caught a quick glimpse of something like a roomful of vegetation, stirring and rustling; and then he pulled his gaze away. They reached the top of the stairs, and JC allowed himself a small internal sigh of relief as he looked down the stairs and found them perfectly normal and unchanged. This time, he led the way down. Making a deliberately loud clatter on the steps so that Happy and Melody would hear him coming. Melody did still have her machine-pistol, after all, and a frequently stated willingness to shoot first and ask questions at the funeral.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the pair of them barely looked round as JC and Brook re-entered the bar. Happy and Melody were sitting perched on their high stools, at opposite ends of the bar-counter. Melody was bent over her lap-top, glaring at the screen and hitting the keyboard so hard the whole machine jumped under her pounding fingertips. Happy was sitting quietly, staring at nothing, or at least nothing any of the others could see. His face was empty, his mouth a flat line; he looked more thoughtful than anything. Brook hurried past JC and went behind the counter to pour himself another large measure of the good brandy. He seemed a little more settled, back in his own territory. But he still had to hold his brandy glass with both hands, to keep i
t steady. JC moved in beside Melody.

  “All quiet upstairs,” he said cheerfully. “More or less. Though quite possibly, the quiet that comes before the storm. I met Lydia—charming young lady. Bit sad, of course, but reasonably composed for someone who killed herself forty years ago. Are you even listening to a word I’m saying, Melody? Or are you still sulking because you haven’t got all your proper equipment to play with?”

  Melody growled under her breath and slapped at the lap-top, to make it clear how annoyed with the machine she was for not doing what it was supposed to do.

  “Absolutely nothing useful to report, JC. This piece of shit is acting up like you wouldn’t believe. If I had my proper equipment, I could do you a full scan of this pub and the surroundings, and get you some proper answers. As it is, the scanners aren’t picking up anything, near or far, and I can’t get a single reading on the local power source, wherever or whatever it is.”

  They both looked around, startled, interrupted by the rising sounds of the storm outside. The wind and the rain were growing steadily louder and more aggressive. The windows jumped and rattled in their frames as the wind slammed against them. The rain was really throwing it down now, pounding against the leaded glass of the windows; while outside the King’s Arms, the wind howled and shrieked and prowled around and around the inn, like some great beast trying to find a way in.

  And maybe it was, thought JC.

  “That storm is not natural,” said Happy.

  They all looked at him until it became clear he had nothing more to say on the subject.

  “I wish Kim would come back,” said JC. “I don’t like to think of her alone out there, in that storm.”

  “You sent her outside,” said Melody.

  “Yes, thank you, Melody,” said JC. “I am aware of that.”

  “Kim is probably the only one of us who isn’t in any danger,” said Happy, in a calm and only slightly far-away voice. “The only one of us the storm can’t touch. I wonder if she could make an umbrella out of her ectoplasm . . . I think Kim has demonstrated that she is a girl who can look after herself . . .”

  “Listen up, people!” Melody said loudly. “Got something . . . I’ve managed to access the latest weather reports, from the local television news . . . Apparently, this storm we’re experiencing is extraordinarily local. As in, it’s only raining over this pub and its surroundings. Nowhere else. In fact, outside of a very limited area, it is bone-dry, without even a breath of wind. Meteorologists are baffled.”

  “Okay,” said JC. “That is . . . interesting. It’s almost as though Someone or Something has arranged this storm for us.”

  He peered over Melody’s shoulder at the lap-top screen; where the local weather-man was gesturing silently at the animated weather map behind him. Melody worked on the sound, and the weather-man’s voice was suddenly there, trying hard to sound knowledgeable and, unfortunately, funny. And then he stopped abruptly, his professional smile falling away as he stared directly at JC and Melody. The weather map behind him disappeared, replaced by the same soured orange-red light JC had seen on the upper floor. The weather-man stepped forward until his face filled the screen. His eyes collapsed and ran away down his cheeks, in dark bloody streams. He grinned and grinned, until his cheeks cracked and split apart, showing the blood-smeared teeth underneath.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, in a painful, rasping voice. “You’re all going to die in this awful place. And after you die, the really bad things will happen to you. Ask your little ghost girl, Kim. Except you can’t because she won’t be coming back. We have her now, and oh the things we’ll do to her . . .”

  “Liar,” JC said calmly. “If you did have her, you’d show her to me. But you can’t because you don’t. Because Kim is far more powerful than anything you’ve got. Now get out of Melody’s lap-top, or I’ll have her show you what the exorcism function can do.”

  The bloody-faced weather-man disappeared in a moment, replaced by the head and shoulders of a pretty young blonde woman with cold, dead eyes.

  “That’s her!” said Happy; and JC and Melody both jumped a little because they hadn’t heard him come over to join them. He looked over Melody’s shoulder and jabbed a stubby finger at the young woman on the screen. “That is the woman I saw in my room!”

  The blonde woman smiled out of the lap-top screen, entirely calm and composed, and when she spoke, her voice was ordinary, and matter of fact.

  “You’re going to die here. And you won’t like it at all. Death isn’t what you think it is. Being dead isn’t what you think it is. This whole building is soaked in death and suffering and horror. They killed me here. A human sacrifice. The priests nailed my guts to the old oak tree and sang sacred songs to drown out my screams. They told me it was an honour; but I still wouldn’t volunteer. They laughed and did it anyway. Because, they said, it was necessary. They should have known better. By sacrificing me in a place of power, they made me powerful. My time has come around at last, and I shall have my revenge on everyone. And taking those won’t help you at all, Happy.”

  JC looked around sharply, to see Happy necking several different colour-coded pills, one after the other. Melody saw it, too, and made a low, soft sound of distress. Happy ignored them both, washing his pills down with several large gulps of the good brandy. He smiled beatifically, then leaned over to stare happily at the face on the screen.

  “That’s what you think, Blondie. You don’t know me at all. These aren’t pills to pump me up; they’re ammunition. I can See you now, See you for what you really are. You’re not real. You’re not a person. You’re not what you appear to be at all, not a ghost or any kind of surviving personality. You’re the door I saw in my room. The blood-red corridor that leads only to death and destruction. You’re the last angry, defiant screams of a murdered young woman, given strength and purpose by a place of power. You’re the storm. You’re what’s outside. And if you had any sense, you’d run away and hide, because you . . . should be afraid of us. You’ve never met anyone like us.”

  The lap-top shut itself down, and the screen went dead. Melody struggled to get it up and running again, but it didn’t want to know. She pushed herself back on her stool and turned her glare on Happy. JC and Brook were staring at him, too. Happy smiled serenely back at them.

  “I feel good!” he said. “I’m not scared of anything. Which is, in itself, I’ll admit, a bit scary.”

  “What have you taken?” said Melody. “How much have you taken?”

  “Like it would mean anything to you if I explained,” said Happy. “Enough to do the job, that’s the point. Let us talk about Blondie.”

  “She said she was killed, sacrificed, by priests,” said JC. “And given how old this inn is supposed to be, I think we can safely assume they were Druid priests. According to all the reports, the Druids never met a problem they thought they couldn’t put right with a sacrifice. They used everything from sacrificial altars in rings of stones to burning whole communities alive in giant Wicker Men. But what was the point of this particular sacrifice? And why did it go wrong? Why is it still . . . persisting, clinging on, after all these centuries?”

  “And why does Blondie want us dead?” said Melody. “I mean, she doesn’t even know us!”

  “I’m sure she’d like us if she knew us . . .” murmured JC.

  “We’re not dealing with the ghost of a murdered girl,” said Happy, “but her last dying emotions, manifesting in this world as the angry storm outside.”

  “Is it me?” said Brook. “Or is the storm getting really loud now?”

  In fact, the storm was howling so loudly that they’d all had to raise their voices to be heard over it. They turned to look at the rain-lashed windows and jumped pretty much in unison as Kim came running through the wall and back into the bar. She stopped abruptly and looked wildly about her.

  “I found something!” she said. “I found something out there; and I think it’s followed me home!”

&nbs
p; It took them all a moment to realise she wasn’t in her white nurse’s outfit any more. In times of crisis, Kim always reverted to the long green dress she had been wearing when she was murdered. She moved quickly over to stand before JC, huddling as close as she could get without actually overlapping him. He wanted to hold her and comfort her but knew he couldn’t. So he made slow, calming motions to her with his hands and gave her his best encouraging smile.

  “What did you see out there, Kim?”

  “It’s more what I didn’t see,” said Kim. She was slowly regaining control of herself though her voice was still very small. “The stars have all gone out . . . and the moon is gone. It’s all gone dark, JC! Take a look out the window; see for yourself.”

  JC started towards the windows, then paused when he realised Kim wasn’t coming with him. She gestured for him to go on. JC nodded gruffly and went over to stare out the nearest window. Happy and Melody were quickly there with him, staring out the next window. They looked out at the night; but the night wasn’t there. Only an endless, impenetrable darkness. Brook listened to their gasps and cries and came reluctantly out from behind the counter to join JC at his window. He leaned in close, almost pressing his face against the glass, and still couldn’t see anything but the dark. Brook stumbled backwards, his face slack with fear and disbelief.

  “There’s nothing out there,” he said numbly.

  “Nothing but the dark,” said JC.

  “Kim’s right,” said Melody, in a shocked, unsteady voice. “No stars, no moon; not even any lights from the town at the end of the road . . . This can’t be right.”

  “And,” said Kim, still not budging from the counter, “there’s Something out there.”

  JC looked back at her. “In the dark?”

  “I think it is the dark,” said Kim.