Darkness Demands

  The water looked hot enough now. He opened he door, then carefully leaned in, his arm snaking around outside the flow of water. Even tiny droplets hitting his arm stung like fury.

  His fingers had almost reached the shower control lever when something popped inside his head. I heard that, he thought, surprised.

  The artery running through the segment of brain that controlled motor function within his body had ruptured. Blood flowed out into the brain, crushing delicate tissues, destroying whole bundles of nerves.

  Keith Haslem felt nothing of this. He simply froze there. A naked man reaching into the shower. Something was happening to him, but he didn't know what. Only he couldn't move his limbs anymore. He was conscious. Completely conscious. He saw the jets of boiling water. He saw the tiles beyond through the stream. He saw the kid's shampoo bottle on the shelf in the shower.

  Another thousand or so neurons died inside his brain.

  Keith Haslem slowly collapsed forward into the shower. He turned as he slipped downward, his one good hand clutching the edge of the door. A moment later the top half of his body lay in the ceramic trough. He looked up at the jets of water driving down into his face. The water also struck his throat and chest and genitals.

  He'd never known such pain. The water was only a few degrees short of boiling. His flesh turned red, skin began to peel.

  He couldn't bear the agony. Yet he could not move.

  With all his heart he wanted to scream for help. For someone to save him from this living hell-fire.

  But he couldn't utter so much as a groan. All he could do was lay there, his mind clear, his senses acute, his nerves raw, his skin nearer purple than red. And all the time the near-boiling water blazed down upon his naked body.

  3

  That Sunday afternoon Val took Paul and Elizabeth on a duty visit to their old neighbors in Leeds. John said he needed to work on the first chapter of the book. Val had smiled understandingly. "In that case I'll stretch the visit out to a couple of hours."

  As he suspected he couldn't settle to work on the book. Instead he found himself taking the two letters from the envelope and brooding over them, looking for some clue hidden, perhaps, in the handwriting. He held them up to the glass again, looking for words that had been erased or some faint mark that would point to the identity of the writer. Both pieces of paper bore the watermark that could just be made out when held to the light. An ugly face in profile that was little more than smoky marks in the fabric of the paper. He tried tearing a corner of it. It was tough, but did tear when he applied greater pressure.

  He was still examining it when he heard Sam bark. In a blur of black the dog sped round the house and onto the driveway. John looked down to see an old lady walk through the gate, then breeze up the path. She was looking the Water Mill over with interest. He watched with a sinking sensation. Dear God, the dog would bark furiously at the woman and probably frighten her silly. Sam did stand there with his front paws splayed, his eyes on her, obviously ready to deliver a series of machine gun-rapid barks.

  The old lady, however, crisply gestured for Sam to come to her.

  To John's surprise the dog obeyed, tail wagging, his head down as if shy to meet the stranger. She made a fuss of the dog. He lapped it up, sniffing her hand, and swishing his tail so hard it swept gravel from the driveway.

  John didn't recognize the visitor. Tall, with no sign of a stoop despite her age, her long gray hair was tied back, and she wore a summer dress of pale pink, with a set of pearls around her neck. Even from this distance she cut a distinguished figure. Dropping the letters onto the table, he went down to her.

  "Hello," he said, exiting by the front door as the old lady walked up the path with Sam following.

  "Good afternoon."

  John noticed the way her bright blue eyes looked him over, assessing him from his shoes to his hair. She held out her hand.

  As he shook it she said, "I'm Dianne Kelly." She looked up at the house. "I used to live here. My bedroom was the one over the front door."

  "Oh?"

  "Now. Let me explain why I am here. I had a telephone call from an old friend last night. Stan Price, I understand you've met him?"

  "Yes, just a couple of days ago."

  "Good. I suspect you went to his house to ask him some questions. As you will have seen, Stan is little far gone to be able to answer them as coherently as one would wish." She looked John in the eye. "Perhaps tea is in order, because we've a long conversation ahead of us, Mr. Newton."

  CHAPTER 19

  1

  This is where I found out everything. The words went through John's head as he showed Dianne Kelly into the living room. The letters, the Bowen grave-everything.

  He saw her sharp eyes absorb every detail. She took a particular interest in the observation window that exposed the millrace. Still in flood, it surged through the stone tunnel beneath the house in a white fury.

  "That's new," she said. "When I lived here the stone floor was covered with an assortment of rugs. We didn't have central heating, either." She smiled. "Or television. We did have a wireless in a big brown Bakelite case over there beneath the window. My father used to love to listen to opera from Vienna. At night it came through on long wave with such beautiful clarity. My father always used to say that Germany had the most beautiful music but the most diabolical politics." She smiled again. "You must forgive me if I wander. We oldies are inclined to do that, you know, Mr. Newton."

  "John, please. Take a seat, Mrs. Kelly."

  "Ah, thank you. It is Miss Kelly, I never married." She chose the sofa then sat down. "I carry too much personal baggage to make an agreeable wife for a man. Besides, I became too wrapped up in my career. I trained as a doctor and ended up serving thirty years here in Skelbrooke as a general practitioner. Oh, what a lovely view of the garden. I'm pleased you haven't torn down the orchard… you don't plan to do away with it, do you?"

  "No, not at all, Dr. Kelly. I've always wanted to live in a house with an orchard."

  "Then you have your wish. And please dispense with that fussy title. Call me Dianne."

  "All right, Dianne." He smiled. "Do you have milk in your tea?"

  "Just a drop, please."

  He found himself rushing to make the drink. Once more he found himself eager to hear what she had to tell him. When he set the cups down on the table by the sofa he expected more small talk. But Dianne got straight to the point.

  "John. You have received an anonymous letter."

  "It's two letters now."

  "I see. Will you show them to me?"

  He returned with the letters. She didn't take them from him but touched the tabletop… leave them there. His heart was beating hard. This is what it feels like when you break down the doors of a tomb to see what lies inside, he told himself. As much as curiosity he felt a hefty dose of trepidation. He was leaving the familiar to venture into unknown territory.

  Choosing the armchair facing the sofa, he sat down, then leaned forward so he could see the letters. He watched her study them. Her blue eyes burned. The color went from her high-cheekboned face. This wasn't a pleasant experience for her. Hand trembling, she raised the cup to sip the liquid.

  When she spoke she didn't mention the letters. Sitting back in the sofa she said, "Stan Price telephoned me last night. As soon as I heard what he had to say I knew I had to come here. Because the rest of the Skelbrooke sheep won't so much as bleat."

  Skelbrooke sheep? He figured she wasn't being complimentary about his fellow villagers. But then in the pub last night they did look like a bunch of sheep. Frightened sheep at that.

  He said, "What did Stan tell you exactly?"

  "Not much. An awful and freakish thing happened. As he was speaking to me the telephone line was struck by lightning."

  John's skin crawled. "Is he badly hurt?"

  "Fortunately, no. Most of the charge earthed through the telephone cable, although he was knocked to the floor, and he has a burn to the fleshy part
of his ear."

  "You've seen him today?"

  "Oh yes. I've just come from the house, in fact. He still looks shaken but the most distressing aspect is that he's as confused as ever. Senile Dementia is a wicked thing, isn't it? It's a cancer of the personality rather than the body. And Stan Price was such a perfect gentleman. Honest, hardworking, generous, compassionate. He was a very good friend to me for years and years." She sighed. "I spoke to Cynthia, his daughter, you know? As painfully shy as ever. She does genuinely care for her father, but I have to say I'm not taken with the son-in-law, Robert." Then she added surprisingly. "To me, he looks a bastard."

  John felt himself warm to Dianne Kelly. So she got the same vibes from Robert Gregory, too? John nodded. "I can't say I was taken with Robert either. He seemed a bit too full of himself."

  "Of course, he's only looking after Stan so he can get his hands on the money once Stan goes. He's probably dipping into Stan's accounts even now. After all, I don't see an idler like Gregory being able to afford handmade Italian shoes, do you?"

  "I see your point." Dianne Kelly would have made a formidable detective with that attention to detail.

  "Which is very sad, John, but it's not why I am here." She clasped her hands together on her lap. Once more he thought she'd begin to talk about the letters. But she didn't. Not at first anyway. She said, "I'm going to relate certain events that happened here in Skelbrooke. It was a long time ago now. More than seventy years, in fact. The place was a lot different then. Roads quieter. You'd see horse drawn carts. The Necropolis up there on the hill was still a working cemetery. Special funeral trains brought mourners and their dear departed in black carriages. Sometimes there would be a dozen funerals a day, especially after a cold snap. And of course whole families would arrive by the same trains to visit graves. It was a bustling place in those days. As well as a full timetable of funerals there were teams of gardeners keeping the place trim. You'd be surprised to see the cemetery in those days, John. There was a tearoom staffed by girls in black uniforms with black lace pinnies. There were even black lace tablecloths on the tables. Stan Price was a real joker as a child; he told me that there was even black sugar in the bowls, and milk dyed a funereal purple." She smiled. "Children actually believed him, too. The Necropolis brought prosperity to the village-it employed dozens of people. Of course, it was a hangover from the Victorians-they were death obsessed. They saw funerals as being glamorous, romantic rituals that had all the pomp and display of a society wedding." She looked up at John, her eyes wise but sad. "See how easy it is for us old folk to wander off the subject?" Her eyes rested on the letters. "Now, John. I have things to tell you…"

  2

  John didn't interrupt. He sat back, allowing the old woman to tell her story as she needed to tell it. Outside it was warm, if overcast. Clouds piled layer upon layer until the sky wasn't just dark but had become a deep reptilian green. As it grew darker still, the floodwaters running along the channel to the house darkened with the sky. John Newton's mood mirrored the morbid weather. To him the stream had taken on the ugly aspect of fluid discharging from some vast necrotic ulcer. One that rotted in the once beautiful face of this little rural village.

  As he listened to the calm voice he grew colder and colder. But it was nothing to do with the temperature. The story was taking him to a dark place-a place he was afraid to visit…

  "I was born in this house eighty-four years ago. My father, Herbert Kelly, was head-teacher at Skelbrooke School. He was tall, slim, had a sharply trimmed beard, and wherever he went he wore a Panama hat. You could see him walking across the fields from miles away. That white hat of his was a beacon. And he had a good heart, John. He believed every child had a spark of greatness in them and he loved the village where he lived. Many a night he would sit at the typewriter, working on his newspaper column, Aspects of Skelbrooke, where he wrote about local characters and trumpeted the achievements of ordinary people who lived here. And he loved his family. He made time to be with us, and to listen to what we had to say. He often said that his children taught him far more than he taught them. He adored my mother, Beatrice-you know, she was the first woman to graduate from Leeds University with a civil engineering degree… Oh. I'm making this sound so rosy, aren't I? Happy families 1930's style. When ice-cream tasted like ice-cream; when you got more bang for your buck." She smiled. "In retrospect it does seem like that. I remember playing in the lake. I'd paddle in the water with my little sister, Mary. We'd catch fish with a string and worm. The sun always seemed to shine. Butterflies of every color you could think of flew through the orchard. We had a lovely big brown dog called Teddy. We ate well; we were so healthy we glowed. Then one morning in October my father told me he was going to pick mushrooms from the meadow. He put on his Panama hat, picked up the basket and left the house. He was back two minutes later. He didn't have any mushrooms but he was carrying a piece of paper. He was smiling and saying that it was a funny way to send a letter. That's the last time I can remember him smiling in such a genuine and carefree way.

  "Anyway. He laid the paper down on the table." Her eyes grew faraway. She was replaying the memory before her mind's eye. Every detail as clear as the day it happened. John pictured a scholarly looking man, smoothing down the letter with his hands. The big brown dog would be wagging its tail, wondering what all the excitement was about. The two girls would be clustering round to see the paper. A grandfather clock would tick in the corner while on the stove a stew would be simmering in a pan the size of a baby's bath.

  She continued, "First of all he asked us which one had been playing the joke. Of course Mary and I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Then he read the letter to us." The old woman closed her eyes, reciting from memory. "Dear Mister Kelly, I should wish yew put me a pound of chock latt on the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be sorry if yew do not. Naturally he thought it was a prank. In fact he was amused by the inventiveness of what he guessed was one of his pupils trying to get their hands on a bar of chocolate. My father put the letter away. He ignored it. The Sabbath came and went. A few days later I climbed over the fence to the field. I was in a hurry, coming home from school. My cousins were coming from Leeds and I wanted to change into a new dress. Anyway, as I climbed the fence I swore someone caught hold of my foot and tipped me over it. I came down with such a bump. My head split open from my right eyebrow to my left temple." She touched her forehead where a scar ran across the wrinkled skin. "Good grief what a mess. My father was convinced I'd been hit by an axe. I finished the evening on the sofa looking like an Egyptian mummy with bandages swathed all around here." She made a circling motion round her entire head.

  John thought about Elizabeth. The fall from the bike… her throat's been cut… The words from his initial reaction swam round his head. After returning from the hospital Elizabeth sat on the observation glass, her head festooned in bandages.

  Water in the millrace boomed, sending tremors up through the stone floor.

  Dianne Kelly had fallen silent for a moment, too, her fingers once more going to the scar that must have once been a raw and agonizing slash. "Poor Dad. He was beside himself with fright…" She took a breath before continuing matter-of-factly. "My father commented on the letter in his Aspects Of Skelbrooke column, but… and he remarked about it to us at the time, no-one in the village mentioned the mystery letter, even though they chatted to my father about other incidents in his column. We didn't know then that an outbreak of such letters was one of those 'subjects' not to be discussed. Like madness in the family or if an uncle had died of syphilis. Local people clamed up tight about it. So, life went on in the Kelly family. Dad taught his students. Mother worked on her civil engineering papers. Mary and I went to school, and we played in the meadow in the evenings." She paused as a rumble sounded through the house. It was one of those sounds that are so deep they are felt rather than heard. Straightaway John realized it wasn't thunder. It sounded as if a solid object was being drag
ged through the millrace tunnel, scraping against the stone walls, buffeting against joists and pillars. The scraping sound came again. Claws scraping against stonework…

  John closed off the thought. He turned to Dianne. "Then more letters came?"

  "Yes. One that demanded porter-that's an old-fashioned name for-"

  "Beer. Yes." He nodded toward the letters on the coffee table. "I got one of those, too."

  "And other people were receiving the letters. Although the rest of the village kept their mouths shut tight. But I found out from Stan Price that his father had received one, then a second."

  "Stan's father ignored them, too?"

  "Yes. A week after receiving the second Mrs. Price fell from a train and was killed."

  "But it was an accident?"

  "Let's say it appeared to be an accident. But with hindsight…" She didn't complete the sentence. From the tunnel beneath the house the scratching grew louder. Demanding attention. With an effort she drew her gaze from the observation window to look John in the eye. "My father ignored the second letter as well. A week later the school governors summoned him to a meeting. They suspended him from his teaching duties… he never told us why. He was a proud man. What they did wounded him more than words can say." Her eyes rolled down to the letters as if fingers had somehow gripped her eyeballs and twisted them down to stare at the letters against her will. John saw she hated them.

  "The mood in the house became terrible," she said. "From sunlight and happiness to a dark, depressing place. Hardly anyone spoke. But, like a disease, this gloom spread through the village. People started to leave. Oh, they never said they were leaving because of the letters… only suddenly families were taking trips to the coast, or visiting friends. But they left in a hurry. Which of course was foolhardy, because you can't run from this thing. It follows you. Then when it finds you it cuts you down."