There they were! Tiny orange orbs twinkling in the middle distance. The inviting sight of boats safely at anchor in the harbour. They must have been closer to port than he'd thought. Either that, or the storm had propelled them along their designated course much quicker than anyone had anticipated. Whatever, it didn't matter. Despite the peril they were in, there were triumphant shouts and whoops of joy as word spread. The ship lurched unsteadily to one side as it endeavoured to change its course, and then followed an eerie moment of tranquillity. The howling wind died, the pounding rain eased off, and the great swells that threatened to engulf the ship subsided. For a few precious seconds, it was like being held in suspended animation.
Amazingly, miraculously, Dale was able to see through the darkness, across the vast expanse of water, straight into the heart of their destination. And what he saw there chilled him to the bone. There was no safe harbour. The lights flickered and winked out to reveal only a desolate, deserted beach, painted grey in the fading light. Worse than that, between the beach and the ship, ranks of jagged black rocks jutted up out of the water like murderous teeth. The ship was heading straight toward them. He felt a surge of panic run through his body. Could nobody else see what he was seeing? Why didn't someone sound the alarm?
He had to warn someone, get them to change course. It would be a hopeless task, but he had to do something. He screamed and hoped somebody would hear, but no sound came out of his mouth. He was struck dumb. That awful feeling of helplessness and vulnerability so prevalent in dreams washed over him as he resigned himself to his fate. They had been deceived, either by God or man, and there would be a heavy price to pay for such naivety.
There was a horrific, splintering crunch as the ship hit something unseen, and Dale knew that it was already too late. The vessel was jolted violently, sending those unfortunates still working top-side slipping and sliding across the deck, striking various immovable objects with sickening force as they went. Dale was thrown against some hand rails so hard he felt his ribs break. What little wind he had left in him leaked out slowly, he guessed through a punctured lung. One man cleared the rails completely, and was thrown head-first over the side into the thankless water below. He screamed as he fell. At that moment, a gigantic wave rose over the ship, lifting it out of the water on its swell and throwing it onto the waiting black rocks, and it was then Dale knew they were doomed. There would be no glorious homecoming. The ominous sounds of wood being shredded mingled with the screams of the dying as the ship was mercilessly battered and smashed against the unyielding rock.
Then, there was water. Only water. As cold and black as the night. He tried to swim, frantically kicking and thrashing his limbs in desperation, but his ribs hurt and the swirling currents were too strong to resist. The water kept sucking him under, almost as if a demonic hand had a grip of his legs. He was twisting and turning in the depths so much that he didn't even know which way was up any more. He tried to find a purchase, something solid that would keep him still, but his flailing arms found nothing. As his lungs filled with freezing, vile liquid, the will to survive ebbed from his body. In the end, he welcomed the silent tranquillity.
Dale opened his eyes. At first his befuddled mind couldn't make sense of what had happened, what was happening. He was suffocating! He wanted to scream for help, but he there wasn't enough air in his lungs. Instead he lay on his back gasping and sucking grateful mouthfuls of oxygen into his body.
It was just a dream.
He lay still for a few moments, collecting his thoughts and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The luminous face on his watch told him it was just after three in the morning. Instinctively, he looked across at Lucy's sleeping form in the adjacent bed. He blinked once, twice.
Something was wrong.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the bed was empty, and all he was looking at was a bunched-up duvet.
He sat bolt-upright, heart thumping like a drum in his chest. Where the hell was Lucy? He flicked on the bedside lamp and quickly scanned the room. Nope. No Lucy. Furthermore, there was no light on in the en suite bathroom and no sound of running water, which meant she wasn't in there, either.
“Lucy?” he called tentatively.
No answer.
He called her name again as he fumbled around for his jeans and hoody. Where the hell could she even go? Worst case scenarios ranging from the banal to the extremely unlikely ran through Dale's mind; the landlord and Old Rolly were part of an international syndicate that drugged female guests and sold them into the sex trade, she had been abducted by aliens, or fallen down the unfamiliar staircase and now lay unconscious at the bottom. As unlikely as every explanation seemed, the fact of the matter was that Lucy was missing.
Then something struck him. Lucy wasn't in the room, that much was evident, but maybe she had gone somewhere voluntarily. Yes, that must be it. You never know with creative types, they were liable to do some damned unusual things in the name of art. Sneaking out after dark to take night scape pictures was pretty tame in comparison to some of the stories he heard. He should call her. Yes, that's what he would do. If she'd gone out for a walk or something, surely she would have taken her phone. It would be stupid not to. Dale quickly located his own phone, scrolled through his contacts list until he found Lucy, and pressed CALL.
Something stirred in the room, and a sudden noise fractured the stillness. Dale whirled around, unsure of what to expect. His heart sank a few notches when he realized that the noise he heard was just Lucy's phone, which had been left on her pillow. It vibrated softly, before breaking into the opening chords of a 5 Seconds of Summer hit. He didn't know which one, they all sounded the same to him.
Shit. So she didn't take her phone with her. She must have taken their room key, though. They only had one key between them, so if she had gone somewhere and intended to get back in, she surely would have taken it. A quick scan of the room revealed the key still lying on the desk next to his notebook exactly where they had left it.
This was bad. Very bad.
Swearing under his breath, Dale swept the key up in his hand and thrust it into his pocket whilst simultaneously squeezing a pair of Vans onto sock-less feet. After a last look around the room, he quietly opened the door and slipped into the corridor. The soft yellow lighting couldn't disguise how chilly it was. His breath left his mouth in plumes as Dale looked from left to right and back again. Every visible door was closed, and everything seemed just the way it should be.
He stood and listened for a few seconds. Nothing stirred. Heart thudding in his chest, he tip-toed toward the staircase at the far end. His feet sank into the lush blue carpet as he made his way down the corridor. When he reached the staircase he gripped the bannister, fingers curling around the cold wood. Descending the stairs it felt like every nerve in his body was being pulled taught, every sense heightened. The faint smell of fresh paint hung in the air. At the bottom of the stairs were two doors. Knowing one led to the bar, he tried it. Locked. The other door, he guessed, was the 'after hours' entrance and exit Machen briefed them about.
He double checked that he still had the key to get back in. Yes, it was in his pocket. In his mind's eye he saw Lucy waking up during the night, coming down to get some air, and forgetting to take it with her. Right now she was probably standing outside, shivering. Dale, primed for a knight in shining armour cameo, unlocked the door and flung it open.
No Lucy.
He stuck his head outside and peered into the darkness. In the sky overhead, stars blinked intermittently through clouds racing across the sky. His car was still there, he could see its silhouette. At least Lucy hadn't stolen it to go joyriding. He wondered if he should risk calling out to make sure she hadn't taken shelter somewhere within earshot. But that would probably wake up everyone within a mile radius. He settled for calling her name in a hoarse whisper a few times instead. No response.
Standing on the doorstep, he scratched his head. What should he do now? What could he do?
Raise the alarm? When would be the appropriate time to push the red panic button?
Away to the left, the path they walked just hours earlier stretched out into the darkness beyond and a gentle breeze ruffled the foliage. If Dale listened carefully, he could hear the constant restless murmur of the sea. He thought about venturing down to the beach, but knew it would be a pointless exercise. It would be so dark down there Lucy could be right under his nose and he wouldn't be able to see her. He whispered her name once more, as loudly as he dared, waited and listened.
As if in response to his voice, this time there was a noise. Something unidentifiable and foreign, yet unmistakeably manufactured. It came from somewhere on or near the path. His head snapped in that direction. Holding his breath, he scrutinized the dark expanse stretching out before him.
Something was moving.
He looked for recognisable shapes and outlines, but could distinguish nothing amongst the perpetually crawling shadows. “Lucy?” he said cautiously, “Is that you?”
Suddenly, a strange feeling settled over him. No, not a feeling, more a conviction. An awful certainty that whatever lurked a little way up that path was not for his eyes. It was something inhuman, something terrible. Dale struggled to stay calm, and without even realizing it, retreated warily back over the threshold of Sker House hoping its bricks and mortar would provide refuge. He thought about calling out again, but decided against it. Maybe a cat or a dog made the noise, a hedgehog or field mouse, even a werewolf or a zombie. Whatever, it wasn't Lucy.
He decided to check their room again to see if she'd returned. If not, he would rouse the landlord and find out what the usual procedure was when one of his guests went missing. With no small sense of relief, he closed the self-locking door behind him and retraced his steps back up the stairs, cursing himself for getting spooked so easily. Some knight in shining armour he was turning out to be. He was halfway back to their room when he noticed the second flight of stairs leading to the upper floors. Of course! How could he have been so stupid? Knowing Lucy, she was off trying to get pictures of the Maid of Sker in action. The fourth floor, where she'd seen the figure at the window.
He didn't bother checking their room. Instead, he bounded up the staircase two at a time. As he neared the top he slowed and became more cautious. Here, the smell of paint was stronger. Didn't Machen say this part of the house was still being renovated? Who knew what he would think if he found Dale or Lucy roaming around up here at night unsupervised. He carefully opened a door leading to another corridor. A large hand-drawn sign hanging on the door reading PRIVATE: NO ADMITTANCE was enough to make Dale pause for no more than a second.
Find Lucy, get the hell out.
The corridor was as black as the night outside. And why wouldn't it be? Nobody was even supposed to be up here. Hot on the heels of that thought came another, this one even more disturbing. Was it safe? There could be any number of life-threatening hazards laying in wait. The darkness seemed to ooze out onto the landing like an ink spill as Dale swiftly closed the door again to buy some time to think. He was way out of his depth. He wanted to go and find Machen. He probably wouldn't be best pleased to be woken up at this hour, but at least he would know what to do.
On the other hand, he couldn't turn back now. If it hadn't been for him, Lucy wouldn't even have come to Sker. Now he was here, it wouldn't hurt to have a quick look around. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door again. It immediately tried to close itself, so Dale looked around for something to brace it open with. There was a large red fire extinguisher on the floor, which he shunted over and leaned against the door. The light from the landing would provide at least a little illumination, but more importantly, would stop him becoming disoriented. That done, he moved quietly into the corridor, squinting to try and see better.
The floor in this part of the house was littered with debris and yet to benefit from the luxury of a carpet. Even though he wore trainers and tried to tread carefully, the sound of his footsteps announced his presence. As he made his way down the corridor he kept imagining long, skeletal arms with rotting skin and flesh hanging off in strips reaching out and grabbing for him. He found himself moving quicker, the rectangle of light behind him diminishing with every step.
Around half way down, he realized he wasn't alone. There was a figure up ahead. Dale stopped dead in his tracks and stared. It was definitely a human form, wearing something white, standing motionless at the dark end of the corridor. Judging by the shapely contours, he guessed it was a female.
The Maid of Sker?
Was he looking at a ghost? All the strength in his legs was sucked out and he leaned against the cracked, blistered wall to stop himself sinking to the floor. At any other time (preferably with a TV crew in tow) he would be happy to catch a glimpse of a famous apparition. But not tonight. Not now. His first instinct was to run. Get away. Go and get Machen. But what would Dale say to him? I was just trespassing upstairs, you know, the part of the house currently closed to the public, whilst looking for my friend, who's missing, by the way, when your ghost jumped out and scared the shit out of me.
That didn't sound very plausible, and Dale couldn't think of a way to make it sound any better. Eyes glued to the apparition floating in front of him, he summoned every ounce of courage he had and pushed himself off the wall.
This is why you came here, he told himself. You came looking for ghosts and you found one. You should feel lucky not scared. How many fishermen go fishing then run away at the sight of a fish?
Forcing his legs to do what they didn't want to do, he took a few hesitant paces forward. He wanted to try and make contact with the spirit, find out why it was here. At least he would get to see what a ghost looked like close up.
Eyes fixed on the eerie sight in front of him, he edged closer. The figure hadn't moved an inch, and he began to wonder whether it could be a mannequin, liberated from a fashion boutique and left to rot here in the upper reaches of Sker House. Optimistic, maybe. But as the old saying went, 'Hope for the best, plan for the worst'. Applying the maxim he found himself hoping for a mannequin, planning for a supernatural entity, and getting ready to run just in case.
Suddenly, the figure swayed slightly, like a blade of grass bending in a gentle breeze. It was no mannequin. It was a girl, standing outside a door and facing away from him.
Dale stopped. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat, “Er... miss?” At the sound of his voice the girl's head twitched, then slowly began to turn. He checked behind him to make sure the exit was still clear and visible, that dependable, ever-shrinking rectangle of light.
Curiosity drove him on, and he took another step forward. Hardly any light could penetrate this far, it was virtually pitch black. The girl faced him now, but he still couldn't make out any features. Then, she shuffled forward a few steps and reached out a hand. “Dale, is that you? What happened?”
He had found Lucy.
Chapter 10:
Alone with the Horrors
Machen lay motionless in his too-big bed, bathed in light from the lamp on his bedside table. It was switched on most of the time these days, its 60-watt bulb blazing defiantly on through the night. He may have lapsed into a couple of hours of fevered dozing after he polished off the latest bottle of JD, but he knew that was his lot for the night. Sleep was a luxury. Some nights were better than others. Once, a couple of weeks ago, he managed a full four hours. Or at least, he thought he did. Looking back he wasn't so sure. He may only have dreamt he was asleep all that time.
Is that even possible?
The sleep he did get was never restful. The wheels of his mind never stopped turning, and awful things stalked his dreams. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he sympathised with the workmen who complained about being unable to sleep at Sker House. Now he understood. But as usual, it was too late. And what good was understanding, anyway? Understanding something didn't magically grant you the ability to change it.
Like most children, in his early years
Machen had been afflicted with a profound fear of the dark. He remembered watching the sun go down through his bedroom window with a sense of building trepidation, because he knew another night was coming. But as he grew into a man, the fear left him to be replaced by more mundane preoccupations like love and work, and was largely forgotten. When he matured, he came to realise that the root of his anxiety was a simple fear of the unknown, rather than a fear of the dark itself. Darkness renders you blind, depriving you of the most essential of the five senses, and you fear what could be there rather than what is there. Which was usually a big fat nothing. As soon as he accepted this fact, the nights became easier. As he grew older he learned to savour the serenity, and welcomed its silent embrace. Nights were quiet and peaceful, a time for rest and reflection.
But now in his twilight years that irrational childhood fear was back, and he had grown to despise the night more than ever. As daylight faded, he found himself getting more and more agitated. He dreaded the onset of darkness almost as much as he dreaded counting his bar takings at the end of the day. That was when he usually reached for the bottle of whisky, telling himself it would soothe his shattered nerves and help him sleep. It never did. In fact, many times it seemed to have the opposite effect and he would lie awake, head spinning violently. Darkness made him feel inconsequential, like he didn't even exist. The knowledge that all his adult life had been spent in denial didn't sit well with him. All that time spent fooling himself, wrapping himself in a thick cloak of ignorance. Sker House had taught him that all those terrible things he imagined when he was a child, like salivating monsters with yellow eyes and long, sharp teeth and claws ready to tear the flesh from his bones, were more than just figments of an over-fertile imagination. They were real.
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