by Simon Clark
Ghost Monster
Simon Clark
Contents
Title Page
THIRTY YEARS LEFT
FOUR DAYS LEFT
THREE DAYS LEFT
TWO DAYS LEFT
ONE DAY LEFT
NO DAYS LEFT
AFTER
By the Same Author
Copyright
THIRTY YEARS LEFT
REBECCA WATCHED THE man. Love and rage clashed inside her. Conflicting emotions tried to batter each other into submission. Yet one couldn’t triumph over the other. As she crept up on him through the long cemetery grass she saw herself snatching up a piece of shattered gravestone then hurling it in his face. However, a second later she imagined his mouth on hers, as he pushed her back into a bed of wild flowers. And there, between the tombs, she’d breathlessly beg him to take pleasure in her body.
Cold October winds blew from the ocean. They sang through the abandoned mansion on the cliff-top – a sad song of lost hope; a ballad for abandoned lovers. That breeze brought with it the musky smell of the derelict’s shuttered rooms; it streamed through Rebecca’s long red hair. In that strange mood of hers it felt as if the ghosts of Murrain Hall ran their fingers roughly across her scalp, tugging curls sharply enough to elicit a surprised gasp.
For a while she stood beside a graveyard angel; one corroded by storms into an ugly, hunched thing. What now? Do I go back to my car and forget what happened last night? Or do I get hold of Jacob? Then keep my hands on him until he tells me what I want to hear? Damn him … I wish I’d never set eyes on his face.
Despite the urge to drive out of here, Rebecca found that her feet carried her through the cemetery to the mausoleum. This brick-built building was no bigger than a prison cell. The side nearest to her presented an opening that extended the full length of the structure. Normally, it would be sealed by a gate made of iron bars so thick you’d think the barrier had been placed there to keep a thousand desperate prisoners locked inside. Now, the gate had been swung open on its big oily hinges.
The subject of her rage – and her passion – worked diligently within. Dear Lord, he could have been a surgeon the way he carefully attended to that vile thing. Talk about being scrupulous! This smacked of obsession … a morbid obsession that sent a trickle of goose bumps up her thighs.
Rebecca Lowe didn’t even want to think his name. Yet it spurted from her mouth with so much heat it made her lips tingle, as if she’d been suddenly kissed: ‘Jacob Murrain!’
Her shout didn’t even make him pause. He continued polishing the mosaic set in the mausoleum floor. An oil lamp hanging from its ceiling washed him in a rich amber glow.
Rebecca forged through the long grass, over the swelling mounds that marked burial plots. Deep beneath her feet there’d be cavities of utter darkness that housed skeletons by the hundred, softly decaying burial shrouds and a deathly, eternal silence.
‘Jacob Murrain!’ Rebecca burst into the little building.
The man remained on his knees. With a slow rhythm he wiped the mosaic.
She hissed, ‘Why must you do that? I couldn’t even bring myself to touch it.’
Without looking up, he said, ‘You shouldn’t have followed me here.’
‘I needed to see you again.’
‘Why?’
‘You know why.’
Shaking his head, he used the cloth to rub the ugly image there on the floor.
Speechless with pent-up emotion, Rebecca glared at the man. Jacob Murrain was lean from working in the forest. Mid-forties, yet not a grey strand flecked his black hair. His broad face always appeared tanned, even in winter, which accentuated his pale-grey eyes.
She asked herself: Why am I obsessed with that face? And even as she persuaded herself to aim a kick at him as he crouched there, she found herself panting, ‘Make love to me.’ Her eyes bore into his head. ‘Like you did last night.’ He didn’t respond. ‘Jacob! Prove to me that you don’t regret spending the night in my bed.’
‘We’re not kids, Rebecca. I’m forty-five. You’re …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he paid close attention to the mosaic eye with its fiery red pupil.
‘I know we’re not children,’ she said, with some heat. ‘I’ve been married. Had two sons. Not that that stopped you being excited by my body. Listen, Jacob – last night, I let you do things that no man has ever done to me before.’
‘I’ve got bad blood, Rebecca.’ At last he straightened his back. ‘I’ve got his blood.’ He nodded at the mosaic. ‘Just like him, I’m a Murrain.’ Taking a breath, he explained, ‘Murrain blood poisons us, and it poisons everyone we care about.’
‘You care about me?’
Jacob tipped fluid from an old brandy bottle. From the bubbles in it she figured it was a mixture of detergent and water. Outside, the wind blew hard. It rustled grass around the tombs. Then it caught the pinnacles on the church tower. It produced a sound that made her shiver. Voices whispering. That tone of whisper was reserved for the town gossips, when they sneeringly speculated how long her latest love-affair would last before yet another disastrous and acrimonious break-up. For the last twenty years I’ve been the talk of the town, she thought sourly. ‘Here comes Rebecca Lowe, the red-haired seducer of men.’ She sighed. If only I could have a relationship that doesn’t get complicated. Just once. Please, God….
Now here she was: obsessed and loving and hating in equal measure.
Why Jacob Murrain? He’s as much a town pariah as me. The family’s always had a bad name. Devil Murrain, they call them. Shaking her head, she watched him lavish care on the hideous mosaic. If only he’d caress her bare skin, like he stroked the cloth across the face of his ancestor.
In an attempt to draw him into conversation, and so maybe elicit an answer to her question about him caring for her, she said, ‘Ghost Monster. That’s what we called that picture when we were children. We used to come up here and say to each other, “I dare you to put your arm through the bars and touch the Ghost Monster’s face”.’
‘That would be a stupid thing to do.’
‘Why? It’s only a stupid picture.’
He paused to survey the results of his cleaning. The eyes of the mosaic portrait appeared to burn in the lamplight. Lips were parted to reveal bright teeth. ‘This is my ancestor, Justice Murrain.’
‘I know. He had the blood of a thousand men and women on his hands. Families down in the town still scare their children with the story. Then the kids come up here and dare each other to touch the Ghost Monster. And it still gives them nightmares.’
‘So it should. Then it gives me nightmares, too.’
The physical intimacy of a few hours ago gave her permission, at least in her mind, to ask Jacob the question people longed to ask but never dared. ‘Why do you do this?’
‘It’s got to be preserved. I clean it every week. Then every two months I apply a coat of resin to make sure the mosaic fragments stay cemented in place.’
‘But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You’re obsessed. You’re up here in all weathers, moping over the damn thing – cleaning, polishing, gluing the bits back down, fixing the tiles on the mausoleum so the rain doesn’t come in. You’ve even been seen at midnight, checking that the lamp hasn’t gone out. It’s crazy!’
‘No, it’s not. The lamp must stay burning.’
‘But you’re not tidying this thing up. You’re guarding it, aren’t you? As if it’s made out of gold.’
‘It’s our family tradition.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I didn’t you’d die. Everyone in the town would die.’
The answer shocked her as much as a slap in the face. ‘Jacob? You really believe that?’
Calmly, he said, ‘
This is a portrait of Justice Murrain. Never a more evil man lived round here. When he died he refused to lie where he was put. His spirit continued to haunt these cliffs. It was another ancestor of mine who created the mosaic. How it works, I don’t know, but it holds Justice Murrain’s spirit in the ground.’
‘That’s insane.’
‘Ask the townspeople. If they’ve got the guts to agree with me they’ll confirm it. This image children call the Ghost Monster is a prison for my ancestor’s ghost.’
He stood up in order to reach the lamp. Turning a little wheel just beneath the glass chimney, caused the wick to grow longer. In turn, that made the lamp burn brighter. Amber became bright yellow. That intensity of light almost forced Rebecca to close her eyes. Once more her anger got the better of her.
‘So if I smash this picture to pieces it will release the ghost of your ancestor?’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘I know why you’re saying these things, Jacob. I’ve seen through you. You’re thinking, “Now I’ve had my fun with the woman I’ll scare her away with a ghost story.” Well, I’m not so easily scared!’
Suddenly, he turned and gripped her elbow. The grip hurt, but it was sweet hurt, too. Despite herself, she wanted him to hold her in a crushing embrace. His pale-grey eyes locked on to hers.
‘Rebecca. You listen to me. I’m not joking. And I’ll give you this warning: life is going to get dangerous for us here. A new harbour is being built down the coast.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘They’ve dredged out the channel for oil tankers. That’s led to shifts in seabed levels to the point it’s eroding the coast here. You’ve seen how the cliff has been collapsing on to the beach. Part of the old hall has already fallen into the sea.’
‘What’s that got to do with your stupid picture?’ Rebecca stamped her foot on to the portrait of the grim-faced man. He appeared to be gazing up out of a pool of black liquid – just a pale moon of a face, with burning eyes and parted lips that revealed teeth that would have been more suited to a feral dog. She stamped on it again. ‘Did your ancestor hear that? Will he grab me by the foot?’ That laugh became wild sounding.
‘Don’t do that, Rebecca.’
‘Scared?’
‘Yes, I’m scared. As you should be.’ His grip tightened on her arm. It made her heart beat faster. ‘The cliff is eroding. Soon the sea will have taken what’s left of Murrain Hall across there. In a few years it will eat its way through the ground, devouring the church and the cemetery. The ocean will rip this mausoleum apart. Then it will annihilate the mosaic.’ His eyes blazed into hers with a passion that made her tremble. ‘Then my ancestor will be free. Do you understand? He’ll want his revenge on the town. That will include you and everyone you care about.’
‘You’re not mad,’ she spat, ‘you’re a sadist. Trying to scare me half to death so I won’t bother you again.’ She gave it one last try. ‘Make love to me here, Jacob. I can make you feel like you’re in paradise.’
‘Why can’t I make you understand? It’s started to go wrong already. People have seen a figure in the ruins of the house. He’s starting to come back into this world. My ancestor, Justice Murrain, is on his way. As the cliff crumbles it weakens the hold of the mosaic. At the moment he’s just an image … he can’t hurt you. But it won’t be long before he will wreak havoc.’
‘Bastard.’ Anger convulsed her. ‘How dare you cast me aside like I’m a dirty old rag? Last night I gave you so much of my body, Jacob … Now you won’t even talk to me. At least not properly. Instead, you spout ghost stories about your ancestor. Why don’t you just tell me to go to hell? I’d know where I was with that. I’ve heard it enough in the past.’
‘Rebecca—’
Her push caught him off-guard. He tried to brace himself with his right foot, but the shoe found no grip on the smooth stone floor, and he slipped heavily on to his hands and knees.
Show him how you feel. Break something!
If only she could shatter the mosaic, the leering face of Jacob’s ancestor that he so closely guarded. It would be satisfying to gouge the fiery eyes. Then she noticed the lamp. Keeping the thing burning obsessed the man to the extent he’d come out here at night to tend it. Before he could climb to his feet she grabbed the lamp from its hook.
Then she fled with it, laughing. She laughed even louder when she heard his protests. Dear God, the man sounds like a child whose favourite toy’s been stolen.
Rebecca, holding the lamp high, ran through the graveyard. She hadn’t given much thought where she’d take the light. This felt good … hell, it felt so damn fine to have stolen it from Jacob – that’s all that mattered. Just to torment the man. Maybe she could even use the lamp as a bargaining chip?
Rebecca’s path took her toward Murrain Hall. Part of it had already fallen into the sea due to the cliff being eroded. The dark structure that remained was a forbidding pile to be sure. Its little windows were more like those in a prison. The blocks of stone were somehow lumpy looking. The black slate roof resembled the scales of a cobra. The whole place resonated with loneliness, despair, and lives blighted with suffering.
Still gleeful, still intent on mischief, she raced through the stone archway that led into the courtyard. It was darker there. The evening light seemed to prefer to avoid this area. The bleak edifice of the house loomed over Rebecca – a cliff of bleak stone in its own right.
Still holding the burning lamp high, she saw the figure standing there, framed by the doorway of the house.
Laughing, she said, ‘Oh, Jacob? You caught up with me quicker than I thought you would.’ She ran her hand down her hip. ‘Then maybe I provided you with an incentive?’
At that moment, in the yellow flare of the lamp, she looked fully into a familiar face, with those darkly handsome Murrain features. But then Rebecca realized this man wasn’t Jacob Murrain.
It felt as if her heart had been wrenched from her breast. With a piercing scream she started back. Her heel caught against a fallen branch. When she fell on to the ground the lamp broke against her chest. Inflammable oil drenched her clothes. Then the burning wick was on her.
After that she didn’t much care about the man who watched her. Or that fact that he wore the same face as the one in the mosaic. The one that as a lively, impish little girl she’d called: ‘Ghost Monster.’
FOUR DAYS LEFT
1
‘HERE COMES TROUBLE.’
Pel Minton looked in the direction that Nat pointed. Hurrying along the cliff-top path, like lives depended on it, came a man with a mass of black hair that streamed out in the cold wind from the sea. The long coat he wore billowed raven-black. Walking wasn’t easy for him; he needed the wooden cane he wielded to take the pressure off his right leg. If he was in pain, however, he didn’t yield to it. All that mattered was reaching the site of the archeological dig here in the cemetery.
Pel zipped her fleece against the invading cold. ‘So what have you done to upset him, Nat? Stolen his girlfriend?’ She smiled. ‘Just hope he hasn’t brought his gun.’
‘This is England.’ Nat grinned back. ‘When Brits get riled they don’t start shooting, they just get aloof and very, very polite.’
‘Well, that guy looks as if he’s here to rip our heads off.’
Nat shovelled soil from the hole he was standing in. ‘That’s Jacob Murrain. Whenever we start digging in this cemetery he hobbles up and tries talking us to death.’ He tapped his forehead with muddy fingers. ‘Senility-ville.’
‘Senile? He can’t be a day over forty?’ Pel watched the approaching man. He was tall, lean and there was a youthful energy that, despite the limp, powered his stride.
‘The gods must have let him keep his looks in exchange for his sanity. According to the police he’s over eighty.’
‘The police?’
‘Yeah, we had to call the cops a couple of times. He doesn’t like us excavating here. When we refuse to quit he sits in a trench, or climbs on to the bulldozer.
’
By this time, the man was around a hundred yards from them. Pel saw the determined expression on his face. ‘So why is he hell-bent on stopping the excavation?’
‘Just wait until old Jacob gets here – you’ll hear it from his own lips. It’s truly amazing.’ Chuckling, he returned to scooping out more of the soil.
Pel Minton sieved graveyard dirt through a mesh filter on to a plastic sheet. Tiny splinters of human bone, mainly fragments of skull that resembled grey cornflakes, were retained by the mesh. Despite being the mortal remains of the local inhabitants since ancient times, these went into a hopper disparagingly marked DROSS. These shards of bone had no archeological merit as they came from disturbed soil. What Pel had been instructed to search for was quickly datable material, such as pot fragments, coins, shoe-buckles, clothing pins – these were the true archeologists’ treasures. Artefacts that could whisper the secret of their age to the expert who had an ‘ear’ for such things.
Pel Minton had left Providence the day after her twenty-first birthday to travel the world. Pel wasn’t the kind of person to dwell on self-image. She didn’t gaze into the mirror mournfully for hour upon hour. Life is to be enjoyed was her pet mantra. Her best features, she decided: almond-shaped eyes, good jaw-line, long-tapering fingers. Worst feature: hair. And what mad hair! Her unruly, crazy splash of hair bugged her. It never looked right. If only hats were fashionable again, she could hide her frizz under a beret, or even bury it out of sight beneath a gargantuan Mexican sombrero.
As for character: likeable enough to have loads of friends. However, people often confessed to her that she could be a handful. An electric storm in the shape of a single, American female. For some reason, whenever she got into a new relationship Pel Minton disrupted lives – like a twister in a chicken shed. She couldn’t figure out how or why, but she turned her new friends’ world topsy-turvy. Now, every time she met a potential new pal, or new boyfriend, she’d find herself thinking Watch out! You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for. I’m dynamite!
