by Amy Cross
The channel suddenly changes.
“- in the very same hotel suite where Clarke vanished many years ago,” says a different reporter. “Investigators are said to have literally taken the entire suite apart, working with the latest plans supplied by the owners, but have found nothing that would seem to explain these two disappearances. We've learned exclusively, however, that on the night he vanished, Eddie Donohue left two cryptic voice-mail messages for his publicist, in which -”
The channel changes again.
“- and it's important for these young fans to be helped through the grieving process,” says a voice-over, as the image shows teenage girls in tears outside the hotel, some of them even laying wreaths, “because this is a traumatic event for many of them. Eddie Donohue was perhaps the biggest name in the teen music world, and now that he's gone missing, many are having to come to terms with the probability that he's dead. Some, however, refuse to give up hope, and websites have already been set up by some of his biggest fans, peddling various theories about what might have happened to him.”
“I'm his biggest fan,” says a sobbing girl on the screen, “and I'll never believe that he's dead!”
“I've always been his biggest fan,” says another girl, “and I'm not going to abandon him just because he's gone.”
“I refuse to believe that he's dead,” says yet another girl, with tears running down her cheeks. “I can't, I just can't! I'm his biggest fan and -”
The screen goes black as the TV flicks off again.
Silence.
Crazy. Everyone knows I'm Eddie Donohue's biggest fan.
The Horror of Blackforke House
I
November 22nd, 1949
Lightning streaks across the sky, cutting through the howling storm-tossed rain and briefly illuminating the house beyond the gates. Struggling against the gale, I hurry to the lock and try to get the key into its gap, as the van's engine continues to hum behind me.
“Damn it!” I hiss, trying again and again to get the key into position. “Hurry up, won't you?”
Finally I complete the job, and then I set to work pulling the padlock off and then unthreading the thick, heavy metal chains. It's at times like these that I wonder whether all this security is really necessary, but then as I start pulling with all my strength to get the gate open I spot the house silhouetted on the hill ahead and I remember precisely why I can't let any unauthorized groups access the land.
I have to carefully control who does and who does not get to Blackforke House. And tonight, I've decided to let another group go through those tall, heavy doors.
II
“What the hell is that weather all about?” Matheson yells as he stumbles into the cold, dry hallway with his coat pulled up over his head. “It's getting biblical out there!”
“What's wrong,” his wife Heather asks. “Scared of a little rain?”
“Is everyone else soaked?” their assistant Charles says, rushing in behind them with bags of equipment clutching in his hands. “Because I'm soaked.”
“Whatever,” Matheson mutters, lowering his coat and trying to wipe as much rainwater as possible from the sleeves. “At least we're here now. And I suppose a meaty old storm adds some atmosphere to the occasion, right?”
Smiling he turns first to Charles and then to his wife.
“What?” he continues. “Does nobody else appreciate the mood?”
“It's cold in here,” Heather says, rubbing her arms as she turns to me. “I know this is probably a hopelessly naive question, but I don't suppose there's any central heating in this place, is there?”
“There are fireplaces,” I reply calmly, “but I'm afraid that's it. And anyway, we don't have any wood.”
“Of course we don't,” she says, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I wasn't complaining.”
“So this is the place, huh?” Matheson says, wandering past me and making his way to the foot of the spiral staircase. “This is the famous, or should I say infamous, Blackforke House.”
He stops for a moment, before cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Hello!” he calls out. “Is anybody here?”
I flinch.
“Don't!” Heather hisses, hurrying over to him and pulling him back. “Are you nuts? Don't do things like that?”
“Why not?” He turns to her, grinning like a fool, and then he turns to me. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful. I just have a very hard time believing the stories about this place. Don't get me wrong, I'm a firm believer in the supernatural. I've carried out investigations at more than a hundred of the country's most haunted houses. It's just that the tales people tell about Blackforke House... Well, you have to admit that the place's reputation is a little over-the-top.”
“You're not the first person who's said that,” I tell him.
“I'll be honest,” he continues. “I was reluctant to even come here, Mr. Fisher. I don't usually waste my time on hauntings that are so clearly untrue, but my wife persuaded me. I suppose she was caught up in the romance of it all.”
“Have you ever seen her?” Heather asks me. “The ghost of Abigail Lowe, I mean.”
“What I have or haven't seen is neither here nor there,” I reply. “I don't want to influence you in any way. When I arranged for you to come and spent the night at Blackforke House, it was because I wanted your honest opinion of the place.”
“But obviously you believe that this Abigail Lowe woman is haunting the house,” she continues. “Or why would you have offered us so much money to come?”
“So how does this work?” I ask, hoping to change the topic a little. I turn to Matheson, who's already at the foot of the staircase again. “Do I just go away and leave you here for the night, and come back to get you in the morning?”
“Hmm?” He stares up toward the landing for a moment, before turning to me. “Oh, well... I mean, you're welcome to stay, Mr. Fisher. We're quite -”
“No, that won't be necessary,” I say, interrupting him. I glance up the stairs myself for a moment, before looking back at him. “What time will you want picking up in the morning.”
“Whatever time suits you,” he replies, but now there's a glint in his eye as he watches me. “You can't fool me, Mr. Fisher. I can see it already. You do believe that Blackforke House is haunted.”
“I'll be getting back to town,” I say, turning and limping toward the main door. I can hear the rain still crashing down outside, which means the drive is going to be slow and dangerous. “I'll come back around nine tomorrow, if that's alright with you. That way, you should be able to catch the train that leaves just before noon.”
I pull the door open, and suddenly the sound of the storm rushes in. Staring out, I can see rain hammering against the roof of the van. A moment later, hearing a bumping sound, I turn to see that Charles is already unpacking some equipment from one of the cases. He's got some odd-looking contraption with a silver disc at one end.
“That's for measuring changes in the infra-red spectrum,” Heather says, coming over to me. “We're scientists, Mr. Fisher. Everything we do is rooted in proper theory. As I said on the phone, I'd be happy to explain our methods to you some time.”
I watch for a moment as Charles continues assembling the device, and then I turn to see that Heather is staring at me.
“That won't be necessary,” I tell her. “All I need is to know your opinion, and you can give me that in the morning.”
“I'm sorry about my husband,” she replies. “He can be a little... abrasive sometimes.”
“That doesn't bother me one bit,” I explain. “Good luck to you. I suppose you have a very busy night ahead, what with all those gadgets you brought.”
I turn to head out into the rain.
“You have seen something here, haven't you?” she says.
I glance back at her.
“I can see it in your eyes,” she continues. “As soon as we came inside, I could see something change in your expression. This house te
rrifies you, Mr. Fisher, doesn't it? Something scares you to your core.”
I pause for a moment, not really sure how to respond.
“Nine in the morning,” I mutter finally. “I'll be here. Then I can drive you back to the station.”
With that, I hurry out into the rain before she has a chance to say anything else that might delay me. I'm soaked before I'm even halfway, but finally I clamber into the van and pull the door shut, and then I sit breathlessly for a moment and stare at the house as Heather slowly shuts the door. I suppose those three people are going to run all sorts of tests and experiments during the night, and I could have chosen to stay with them, but the truth is I want to spend as little time as possible in Blackforke House.
As I start the engine, I can't help but look up at the house's dark, high windows. Heather was right. This place does terrify me. Even now, I can feel the most terrible sense of dread in my heart.
III
“Something on your mind, Joe?”
Looking up from my beer, I see that Toby Longshanks has come over to bother me. I'd been hoping to have a quiet drink alone before heading back to my cottage, but Toby is already pulling out a chair and he quickly sits opposite me.
“Belter of a storm out there, eh?” he continues, as rain continues to batter the window. “I'm worried I might drown on the walk home.”
Unable to think of a response to such an asinine observation, I remain quiet. Instead of speaking, I take a sip of beer, and I'm already hoping that Toby will get the message and leave me alone.
“I saw you at the station earlier,” he says suddenly, “picking some people up in your van. What was that all about?”
“Are you spying on me?” I snap.
“I just happened to be cycling past,” he replies, but he's grinning now and I can tell that he's enjoying my discomfort. “You can imagine my surprise. I was under the impression that you didn't have any friends.”
“Go to hell.”
“All your friends were Abby's, weren't they? And then when she died -”
“Just leave me alone,” I add, cutting him off. “If I'd wanted to talk, I'd have come over to you earlier.”
“You didn't take them up to the house, did you?” he continues. “I spotted you driving off that way, and there's not much out there apart from Blackforke House, is there? Tell me you didn't take those poor souls out to your crumbling, abandoned old country pile.”
“It's none of your business.”
“God, what were you thinking? There's not even any heating in the place. It must be falling apart by now.”
“You're really not going to get the message, are you?” I mutter, downing the last of my beer and then getting to my feet. “I suppose I should have known better than to think I'd be given some peace and quiet.”
“No offense intended, old thing,” he replies. “You seem awfully prickly tonight. More than usual.”
I step around the table and head toward the door.
“How did it feel, being there again?” he asks. “Must have made you think, being back at Blackforke House and being reminded of Abigail.”
Stopping in the doorway, I clench my right fist as I fight the urge to go back and knock that idiot out. How dare he even mention Abigail's name? Men like Toby Longshanks should be prohibited by law from talking about good, honest, pure women like my dear Abigail.
“It was awful what happened to her,” he continues. “I hope you're not still feeling guilty about it, Joe. None of it was your fault. How could you know that on the one night you were away, those awful people would break in and... Well, we all heard the stories. Don't know how many of them were true, mind, but there was gossip that she was tortured for hours. That's not true, though, is it?”
I know what he's doing.
He thinks he's being clever, and that I'll tell him all the gory details. Like so many other idiots round these parts, he wants to know what the police told me all those years ago. Then he'll spread the details around town, and my poor Abigail's fate will be common knowledge.
I won't give him – or anyone else – that satisfaction.
I won't even give him a response.
Instead, I step out into the rain and let the door swing shut, and then I make my way around the side of the pub and toward the lane that leads to my cottage. I don't even hurry. What's the point? I'm already soaked to the bone, and besides I don't really feel like going home, not yet. I wanted to sit alone in the pub with my thoughts, but Toby bloody Longshanks put paid to that. So as I reach my front door and take the key from my pocket, I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment as I realize that I'm going to face a restless, sleepless night until it's time to drive back to the house in the morning.
The house.
I wonder how those three souls are getting on, out there all alone at Blackforke House...
IV
“Joseph, help me!” Abigail screams, as the two men drag her battered body toward the master bedroom. “Joseph! Help!”
“I'm coming!”
Startled, I jolt forward in the chair, waking from that brief and terrible dream. It takes a moment before I realize where I am, that I'm not at the house on that awful night but that, instead, I must have dozed off here in an armchair in my cottage.
The lights are off, and rain is still falling hard outside.
“Joseph, help me!” Abigail's voice echoes in my thoughts. “Joseph!”
Sighing, I get to my feet. It's only two in the morning, so I still have several hours before it's time to go out and pick up Matheson and his team. Still, my heart is pounding and once again a dream about Abigail has left me feeling desperately angry.
“Help me!” her voice sobs, somewhere in the back of my mind. “Joseph, please...”
I'm sure she really did cry out, just like that, on the night she died. I'm sure she begged and pleaded with me to go home and save her from those two criminals. Instead, I was thirty miles away at some meaningless business meeting, with no idea that my wife was being murdered. I couldn't have known, of course, yet at the same time I feel that I should have known. I was her husband, I was supposed to keep her safe. I thought that when those monsters were executed, I might feel better, but in fact I felt worse. And even today, all these years later, Abigail's voice echoes in my mind, almost like a ghost.
Almost, but not quite.
“I'm so sorry,” I whisper, limping through to the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of water. “I should have been there.”
I pause for a moment, staring out the window. Rain is still being blown against the glass. Somewhere out there, miles away in the darkness, those three poor souls are no doubt conducting all their experiments at Blackforke House. Are they just bumbling about in the dark, I wonder, or are they starting to feel that they're not alone? I suppose I shall learn in the morning whether or not Matheson and his team have uncovered the true horror of Blackforke House.
“I'm sorry, Abigail,” I stammer. “None of this would have happened, if only I'd been home with you that night. If only I'd been there to protect you. If you forgive me, why can't you come and tell me? If you hate me, come and take your revenge! If you -”
Suddenly the glass breaks in my right hand. Gasping, I look down and see that the shards have already cut the palm and several of my fingers. I hadn't even realized that I was holding the glass so tight, but now little pieces are embedded in my skin.
“I'm sorry, my darling,” I whisper, as I start picking glass out of my hand, and as tears fill my eyes. “It's all my fault.”
V
There's a calm that always comes at the end of a storm, a type of quiet that's unlike any other. As I climb out of the van and slam the door shut, and as I hear the squelch of wet grass beneath my feet, I swear these sounds are ten thousand times louder than they should be. The world has changed, at least a little.
I turn and start making my way toward the front of the house, but for a moment I focus my gaze on the distant horizon. Morning sunlight
streams across the damp fields, and the sky is pale blue in parts but white in others. I watch the horizon for a little longer than necessary, because I already noticed as I parked that Heather is sitting at the top of the stone steps, and I don't want to acknowledge her just yet.
Finally, however, I reach the bottom of the steps and I look up, and I see that she's nursing a cup of water in her hands. She certainly doesn't look like someone who just endured a terrifying night in a notoriously haunted house.
“Nine on the dot,” she says with a smile, as I get to the top and stop to tower over her. “You're a very punctual man, Mr. Fisher.”
“Well?” I ask, sounding much more eager and worried than I'd intended. “Did you encounter anything during the night?”
“You mean, did we see or hear the ghost of Abigail Lowe?” She shields her eyes from the sun as she smiles at me. “No, Mr. Fisher, we didn't. Not a thing.”
“Not a sausage,” Matheson says, emerging from the doorway with Charles just a few pages behind. “Not even so much as a bump.”
“I see,” I mutter, stepping aside to let them carry their equipment down to the van.
“You're disappointed?” Heather asks.
“I'm... unsurprised,” I tell her.
She winces as she gets to her feet.
“I'm not going to say it was boring,” she says, “because it wasn't, but in all honesty there wasn't one moment when we suspected anything was here with us at the house.”
Charles head back inside, passing briefly between us.
“Did you test the master bedroom?” I ask. “That's where the activity might be focused.”
