Whitby Vampyrrhic

by Simon Clark

  As the siren continued to bray its warning, he scrambled upwards through the gap between the slab and the earth. There, he found the dog that waited patiently for him to emerge every night. Once he’d drawn himself free of the tomb, he raced, as was his habit, towards town.

  Every night the boy promised himself he’d return home. The cottage, deep in the heart of Whitby, exerted an irresistible attraction. Yet, whenever he arrived there, his nerve failed him. For the people in the cottage didn’t bear any similarity to his family. True, a long time ago, an old lady there had resembled his mother. Yet his mother had been young. Her red hair had been a flash of fire in sunlight. That old woman had been a shrivelled thing, with such sad eyes. Her white hair had, however, contained strands of dull orange. Then, one night, he realized she’d gone. The boy had stared at the black ribbons tied to the door knocker without understanding.

  Yet he still returned to his old home in the hope he’d glimpse his parents and his sister. Then he’d rattle that big old iron knocker, while crying out joyfully, ‘It’s me, it’s Tommy! I’m back!’

  But it hadn’t happened yet. The only friendship in his life was the dog he’d named Sam. This black dog, which stood nearly as high as his hip, sported a blaze of white fur running from its bottom jaw down its chest. One night, he’d seen a man tie the animal to a rock and throw it into the river. Tommy had dashed forward to shout angrily at the man (knowing he’d get a slap for his troubles), but the man had taken one look at Tommy’s face, then screamed in fear. After that, he’d fled so fast that, when he’d fallen flat on his face, every last coin in his pockets had shot out on to the ground. Yet, he’d been so scared of Tommy that he hadn’t stopped to pick up his money.

  Tommy had jumped into the river after the dog. For a long time he’d remained underwater as he’d searched amongst the rocks. Strangely, he’d had no need to breathe. He’d found that the deep, dark waters no longer scared him (as they had done in that past time, when he didn’t occupy that little hollow beneath the stone). Tommy had rescued the dog from drowning. Now they were friends. He knew that during the day the dog stayed close to the stone slab in the field near the gallows’ crossroads. At night, they followed the lane into town. Frantically, he’d search the streets for his parents. Always, he’d find himself trying to look through the windows of his home. But there were only strangers indoors now. He wondered if Dad would be annoyed that they’d stayed there so long. What’s more, those trespassers had changed the colour of the walls. The furniture had been replaced, too. Strange. Tommy just couldn’t understand what had happened.

  Tommy raced through the night-time streets. Sam effortlessly kept pace with him. Tonight, a wailing sounded over the rooftops. He’d heard it before. Sometimes, soon after the wail started, flying crosses would appear in the night sky. They’d all glide in same direction. A droning sound would come from the flying crosses. He didn’t know what they were, but they troubled him. He sensed a danger throbbed inside of them.

  In the town, he tried to look through windows, but they were covered with black cloth on the inside.

  As he hurried to his old home, he saw that figures approached. A man in white, and another dressed in a strange-looking suit with goggles; four more men and women ran with them. They had white, blazing eyes and were eager to reach their destination. In fact, so eager that they brushed Tommy aside as if they’d not seen him. Sam barked furiously. The runners had already vanished into the alleyways.

  Tommy wasn’t hurt. Nowadays, nothing hurt him, unless you can describe missing your parents and your sister as hurting. After stroking Sam for while to soothe him, he sensed he should leave the town behind for tonight. That hole in the ground at Gallows Crossroads could have been calling his name; its pull became irresistible. So he turned his back on the town. Overhead, black crosses appeared. A mournful drone grew louder. As he passed by a cemetery one of the crosses dropped a silver object: a cylinder, which screamed to earth, to plunge into the graves. An enormous bang followed.

  Tommy watched the explosion rip open tombs. Coffin wood, skulls, bones – they all rushed into the sky. Up, up went the dark pall of debris before cascading back down again. The boy observed all this without any real interest. Strange events occurred all the time now. It was as if he’d become separated from the ordinary world and from reality. Nothing really impacted on his life now. That is, apart from Sam, so he hugged the frightened dog. Soft fur pressed against the side of his face as he murmured, ‘Don’t worry, boy. I’ll look after you.’

  Once the dog had stopped trembling, Tommy left the steaming crater in the cemetery and trudged back to his resting place beneath the stone.

  Three

  Beth Layne woke the moment the bomb fell. There first came a deep thud. Just after that, something that resembled thunder. Beth sat in an armchair in the hotel basement. Sally had gone to sleep on a bench against one wall. As always, when Sally woke with a start (as she did now), she looked as anxious as a child. The unfamiliar surroundings startled her.

  ‘Beth . . . Beth! Where are we?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe. We’ve arrived at the hotel in Whitby.’

  ‘Uh . . .’ Sally rubbed her eye. ‘I dreamt we were still on that train. I thought we’d never get here. Where’s the owner?’

  ‘I don’t know. The moment I sat down here I fell asleep. I can’t believe how exhausted I was by the journey.’

  Sally sniffed. ‘There must be something in the sea air. I can’t even remember closing my eyes. Uh, my shoulder’s sore from lying on this hard wood.’

  Beth checked her watch. They’d been in the basement for more than an hour. The sirens no longer wailed. The falling bomb, however, had been shockingly loud. It must have been a close one, she thought, with a shiver, but I won’t tell Sally that. There’s no point in scaring her.

  ‘I hope we won’t be down here much longer.’ Sally shuddered. ‘It’s a scary tomb of a place. I keep expecting Boris Karloff to walk in.’

  ‘At least we’re safe from the air raid, that’s the important thing.’ Yet Beth had to agree. This was one creepy pit, alright. The basement roof and walls consisted of dull red-brick from which cobwebs fluttered. It would make the ideal dungeon, she told herself. She could just imagine half-starved prisoners chained to the walls. The only light came from a bare bulb fixed to the ceiling. Even the light didn’t want to venture into the corners, lest it find something frightening there. She’d not seen shadows like these before, which pooled in the recesses of the walls. They possessed a liquid darkness. Shadows in Whitby aren’t like shadows found anywhere else, she thought. Whitby shadows can pour out of their lairs to engulf victims. Whitby shadows drown you . . .

  She clenched her fists. Why am I letting my imagination run away with me like this? Her mind swam with the strange events of the day. The Whitby set in the studio that never actually existed. Her being pursued by those demon creatures (which couldn’t have existed, either – could they?); then the arrival at this strange coastal town. One that seemed to have landed here from some occult realm. Then she’d found the hair in the entrance to Arguments Yard. What if . . .

  ‘Beth? Anyone home?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘You were miles away.’

  ‘Sorry. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

  ‘Only you could sleep through a bombing raid.’

  ‘The planes must have gone by now.’

  ‘Did you hear me? When I told you what I’d found? Look.’

  Beth saw that Sally had bent at the waist to examine an object on the floor. It resembled another of those liquid-looking shadows. Sally’s eyes were wide with wonder. And what was happening to her hair? The curls fluttered. Some were straightened out to stream upwards.

  ‘Isn’t this weird?’ Sally exclaimed. ‘Where do you think it goes?’

  Fully awake now, Beth left her armchair to approach the puddle of shadow. To her surprise she saw an iron grate set in the floor. The thi
ck rust suggested its great age. And the size of it? Easily as large as a house door, it could have served as the barred gate to a prison cell. Sally crouched in order to gaze down through the bars.

  ‘Feel that air rushing through?’ Sally exclaimed. ‘It smells of the sea. Do you think it leads down to the harbour?’

  A voice cracked across the basement, ‘Keep away from that. It’s dangerous.’

  They turned to see the owner of the hotel sweep towards them.

  ‘You! Sally!’ she snapped. ‘Get back from it. Right back. I don’t want you anywhere near it.’

  ‘But I only wanted to see if—’

  ‘Keep away! I won’t have your death on my conscience.’

  Sally appeared so stung by the flurry of stinging words that Beth flew to her defence. ‘Stop that! Sally was only curious.’

  ‘Believe me, curiosity in this town gets you into serious trouble.’ Eleanor advanced from the shadows, carrying a tray on which there was a silver coffee pot and mugs. She set them down on the table.

  Beth continued, ‘So you own this hotel, it doesn’t give you the right to berate my friend like she’s a stupid child.’

  Eleanor jabbed a finger at the grate. ‘I hate that bloody thing. It scared me to death as a child. Every time I came come down here on an errand I convinced myself that either I’d fall down it, or a great hulking Frankenstein thing would push open the grate and grab hold of me.’ She steadied her evidently jangled nerves with a deep breath. ‘There is a horrible monster down here.’ A smile played on her lips. ‘And that monster is Miss Eleanor Charnwood, hotelier, spinster, and thoroughly bad-tempered woman.’ She offered Sally a hank of her hair. ‘Go on, pull. Pull it really hard. I deserve it.’

  Sally appeared startled at being invited to torture the woman. Then she laughed when she realized that Eleanor was making a joke of her own outburst. ‘No, I’ll do no such thing, Eleanor. You were frightened for my safety, that’s all.’

  ‘Then we’re all friends again?’ She positioned the mugs on the table.

  Sally gushed, ‘Oh yes, absolutely.’

  Beth nodded. This is an unusual woman, she decided. She’s got a wacky sense of humour, but she seems to be wearing a mask. The real Eleanor is concealed underneath. I’m sure of it. Allowing herself a smile, also, Beth decided she must remain on guard. Something didn’t ring true about Eleanor Charnwood. Beth glanced around the basement. ‘So – this is where you dispose of the bodies?’ A joke with a serious question in the centre. Not that Beth suspected Eleanor to be a murderer, but that macabre quip might help dislodge the mask.

  ‘Oh, definitely.’ She picked up the coffee pot. ‘At night I hoist up the big iron trap-door and drop them into the tunnel below. All those men who told me they loved me, but had every intention of sneaking out of the back door, never to return. No coffee, alas, but I have made hot chocolate.’ She poured steaming liquid into the mugs.

  ‘Eleanor.’ Sally beamed. ‘You’ve got a devilish sense of humour.’

  ‘Indeed I have, my dear. It keeps me sane in this insane world. Well, this insane hotel, really. Every night I say a little prayer to the patron saint of bomber pilots to drop a five-hundred-pounder on the bloody roof. Then freedom, delicious freedom.’

  ‘But you said you lived here as a child?’

  ‘Indeed. Born here, I was. Along with my brother. Hotels are in the Charnwood blood. My cousin runs one in Leppington, just a few miles from here. My brother and I inherited when Mother died.’ She tilted her head, listening. The cool flow of air from the iron grate toyed with her hair. ‘The bombers must have got tired of Whitby and gone home. Anyway, we should be safe here. The masonry’s awful thick. Thicker than a tomb, no doubt.’

  Sally accepted the hot chocolate with a grateful sigh. ‘So where does the tunnel go? The one you chuck your lovers into?’

  ‘Beneath the grate is a pit that goes down seven feet, or so. It connects to a tunnel that runs about twenty yards in that direction.’ She pointed at a wall. ‘It opens out under one of the harbour quays. In years gone by, boatmen used it to deliver French brandy into the vaults of the hotel. Whitby was a haven for smugglers way back when. At high tide the sea comes rushing in to fill the tunnel – don’t worry, it doesn’t come up the shaft very far. You won’t wake up to find your beds floating, or sharks biting your toes.’ Beneath the ironwork, those liquid shadows filled the pit. ‘My grandfather used to joke that you could dangle a baited line down there and catch a fish for your supper. Come on, drink your chocolate while it’s hot. Brrr, cold as the grave down here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It must be lonely living in a hotel when it’s not in use,’ Beth said.

  ‘Oh, I’m not on my lonesome, dear. Theo, my brother, lives here, too.’

  Sally’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Then why isn’t he down here? We don’t know for sure if the bombing has stopped.’

  ‘Wild horses won’t drag him down here.’ Her smile became artificial.

  Ah ha, Eleanor, the mask is starting to slip.

  The woman covered her change in expression by topping up their mugs again, while telling them it was difficult to get drinking chocolate, now the rationing of groceries was becoming severe. She added it was also near impossible to buy timber, because she wanted to lay stout boards over the iron grate in the floor. ‘It’s badly rusted. I don’t want my guests falling through.’

  ‘And joining your old lovers.’

  ‘Sally, my thoughts exactly.’ The easy smile returned. ‘And you’re to star in a film? And my hotel will be home for an entire troupe of actors? How exciting. Have you learnt your lines yet?’

  Beth said, ‘We’ve got the scripts, but Sally and I also have the task of finding locations for the filming.’

  ‘By all means, use the hotel. And let me know if I can be of any help in helping you scout suitable places to shoot your picture.’

  ‘Perhaps you could be in it?’ Sally gushed.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And your brother.’

  Again, a slip of the mask. ‘Ah, no, he’s not the acting sort.’

  ‘Camera shy, Eleanor?’ Beth wanted the question to dig through the mask.

  Eleanor simply shrugged. ‘He’s not in the best of health, unfortunately. He stays in his own place. A little cottage in the hotel yard.’ She set her mug down. ‘So what’s your film about, ladies?’

  Beth told her, ‘It’s called This Midnight Realm. The government want to show the rest of the world how ordinary British families cope with day-to-day life in wartime. In this case, the families will be from Whitby.’

  ‘And you’ll be playing these ordinary Whitby folk?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally grinned. ‘I’m playing a wayward daughter – she lives for dancing the night away.’

  Eleanor gave a long Hmm. ‘I would be careful what you tell the locals. One thing they won’t take kindly to is what they see as pampered actors and actresses from London pretending to be them.’

  ‘I’m not from London,’ Sally protested. ‘I’m from Wakefield, and that’s Yorkshire, too, like Whitby.’

  ‘Nevertheless. I’d keep the film’s plot a secret, if you can, otherwise the locals will think you’re making fun of them. Then, believe me, they’ll turn hostile.’

  ‘We’ll deal with it,’ Beth told her.

  ‘Good, because once they turn nasty on you they’ll try and wreck your filming.’

  ‘We saw some of the hostility tonight,’ Beth said.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Brady and her daughter.’

  Sally exclaimed, ‘The poor girl’s teeth. They looked so strange. I mean . . . they were really tiny in her mouth. Like a baby’s milk teeth. And I’ve never seen teeth as white as that before.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Eleanor collected the mugs on to the tray. ‘When Victoria was eighteen she got some kind of fever. She never fully recovered. There was an outbreak of it in the town about twenty years ago.’

  Beth raised an eyebrow. ‘Twenty years ago? But Victoria didn’t look m
uch more than twenty herself.’

  Another siren sounded. This one differed to the rising and falling cry that warned of imminent attack. The alert started with a very low note that rose into a sustained call across the town.

  ‘There goes the all clear.’ Eleanor clapped her hands together. ‘I’ll get you to your rooms.’

  Sally checked her watch. ‘Two o’clock in the morning. At least we should be able to get a few hours’ sleep. God willing.’

  Four

  Mary Tinskell needed to escape her husband. If only she could put on her best coat, then walk smartly down to the station and board a train that would take her from him and his wearying obsession. Harry played darts. Only, it went beyond that. Those diminutive arrows were his life. Once she, Mary, had been his life, and the children, of course. But now darts, darts, darts. That’s all he ever thought about, talked about and probably dreamt about. Oh, he played well, no doubting that. Harry challenged men in the local pubs. Invariably, he won the wagers of beer, which pleased him no end.

  ‘I went out with exactly the same money I came back with,’ was his proud boast (accompanied by waves of beery breath).

  Only, it had reached the point where he’d come home, after the pub had closed, to practise darts for hours in the front parlour of their cottage on Henrietta Street. That monotonous thud-thud-thud of darts hitting the board at gone two in the morning had driven Mary outside in desperation. She had to escape that sound; the infuriating man would send her crazy!

  So, as the clock hands crept beyond a quarter past two, Mary stood in a calf-length nightdress in the cold winter air in the rear yard. This row of houses backed on to the cliff, which soared eighty feet or so above her, to the graveyard. The night lay still after the air raid (such attacks didn’t discourage Harry from playing darts; his new monotonous refrain was, ‘If Hitler wants my darts, he’ll have to cut my bloody fingers off to get ’em’). She inhaled the chilly sea air. If she got herself cold enough, then even the clump of darts, coming from downstairs, might not seem that bad once she’d slid beneath warm bedclothes.