Sker House

by C. M. Saunders

  Using all the strength he could muster, he shook his leg free and felt the grip fall away. Snatching his leg back he pulled it through the opening into the little secret room where he sat on the floor, panting. “Lucy?”

  There were scuffles, sounds of movement, but much further away than before. From a distance somebody said, “Dale? Is everything okay in there? Hold on, we're on our way through.”

  It was Lucy. Her voice was distinctive. Evidently the rest of the group was only just preparing to join him in the room.

  So who had grabbed his foot?

  Who or what had been in the tunnel with him?

  He didn't want to think about that just now, but knew it was the kind of thing that would haunt his nightmares later. In the pitch black void the hidden room had become, Dale prised the lid of the tin of paint he had carried with him and dropped it to the floor. It landed with a metallic clang, and the confined space began to fill with the noxious aroma of chemical-laden paint. He felt in his back pocket for the brush.

  It was gone.

  Shit! It must have worked itself loose and fallen from his pocket somewhere in the tunnel. There was no way he was going back to look for it. He would have to improvise.

  Think, think, think.

  He could just throw the paint over the wall. But then most of it would go to waste, and he'd have to go and get more paint. Not likely. Laying the tin back on the floor, Dale tugged on the sleeve of his hoody as hard as he could. After a couple of good pulls the stitching broke and the sleeve came away. It wasn't a great look, but he doubted anyone would care. He quickly rolled the material into a ball and dunked it into the paint, using it to smear the thick, sticky substance over the walls.

  The noises were at the door now; scrambling, grunting, puffing and panting. “Who's there?”

  “It's me. Who did you think it was?”

  Dale had never been so glad to hear Lucy's south coast burr in all his life. His task momentarily forgotten he held out his arms until they brushed against Lucy's in the dark, then they embraced like long lost lovers. He didn't want to let her go, he wanted to stay there locked together forever, swooning under the effects of her warmth. He felt a rush of heat in his loins, and could have sworn Lucy felt something similar, but then he pushed her away. “Come on,” he said. “Get painting.”

  Chapter 37:

  The Battle

  Once inside the tiny confined space, Lucy didn't even bother trying to light a candle. She had grown tired of all the wasted effort. Instead, she quickly yanked the lid off the tin she was carrying, thrust her brush inside, and eagerly began defacing the nearest surface. She felt invigorated, yet it was a dirty kind of enthusiasm. Almost as if she were getting kicks from doing something she knew was wrong. She experienced a similar feeling at the age of fifteen when she had spray-painted her name on the back of West Gate Shopping Centre. On that occasion, however, the euphoria was cut short when the police showed up and arrested her at school. How embarrassing. She'd made the elementary mistake of spraying her own name instead of using a tag, and may as well have supplied her home address and phone number along with a note saying available for arrest at the following location.

  In a perverse way, on that occasion her own boundless stupidity had actually saved her. The police knew no experienced vandal would be so dim-witted.

  There were more sounds of struggle at the entrance to the room as Old Rolly and Machen scrambled their way into the tiny dark chamber one after the other, each identifiable by the various expletives that accompanied them. “What's this?” Machen asked as he finally squeezed through the gap. “Are you kids in here? Dave? Erm, Betty?”

  “It's Dale and Lucy, and yes we're here.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “It's a long story,” Lucy said. “No time to explain. Later. Right now, grab a brush and start painting!”

  “Painting what, like?”

  “Anything!”

  Muttering to himself, Machen made several unsuccessful attempts to spark his cigarette lighter before also giving up. Lucy continued with her task. In the darkness, there was a lot of guesswork involved. She employed her sense of touch as she worked her way around the immediate vicinity, and could hear the others using whatever means they could to open the tins and transfer the contents onto the walls. At one point, there was a solid thunk and Machen swore loudly. Lucy guessed he must have found the altar with some part of his anatomy.

  Suddenly there was a loud whoosh like a massive displacement of air and a strong breeze rippled around the enclosed space, riddling Lucy's arms and neck with goose bumps. Rolly grunted loudly as if he'd been punched in the stomach. There was a clatter against the far wall, and Rolly shouted, “My brush just got ripped out of my hand! Somebody hit me and stole my bloody brush! Who did that? WHO DID THAT?”

  “You don't need a brush,” came Dale's voice from the other side of the tiny room. “Use your hands, use anything!”

  Something was trying to stop them. Using all the force it could muster, and utilizing every dirty trick in the book. Lucy continued frantically throwing paint at the walls and sensed others around her doing the same. “It must be working!” she shouted.

  “Something's gotten them tetchy,” agreed Rolly, sounding as if he was still reeling from the physical attack he had just endured.

  Just then, a meaty slap echoed around the tiny chamber and Machen let out a startled grunt. The slap was followed by what sounded like a bag of cement being dropped from a great height onto a concrete floor, the noise amplified in the cramped space. Something unseen brushed past Lucy's elbow in a downward motion. She flinched away before realizing it was just the landlord, who until that moment had been standing next to her. Apparently, he was now pole-axed on the floor. “Mach? What happened?”

  Through strangled gasps of air Machen said, “Something... something pushed me over.” He sounded on the verge of a panic attack. Lucy reached down a hand to console the landlord, or help him up, whichever would benefit him the most, but in the darkness she couldn't see where he was. Her out-stretched hand made contact with something that felt like a silk sheet, then she suddenly felt tired and woozy. Her arms felt weightless, and the sounds around her decreased in volume as the surrounding darkness enveloped her. Whatever had seemed so important just minutes ago now sank into oblivion. She could hear a voice in some far off place, the thick syllables dancing through what felt like musical notes in a dream, but the words made no sense to her.

  *

  It was all going to shit. Was anyone else still painting? There were sounds of a commotion, everyone seemed to be fighting their own battles. Dale continued rubbing paint over the wall, but couldn't shake the feeling that he was just going over the same ground. That was the problem with painting in the dark. He decided to stop and try to use the lighter again. It was the only way they would be able to tell which parts of the room still needed attention. He struck the wheel. There was a flash, but it didn't last long enough for his eyes to drink in anything of value. He thumbed the wheel again and again, not allowing the smallest detectable break in the mini-shower of sparks cascading to the ground.

  A stray spark leapt onto the back of his hand and stuck there for a second, searing the flesh, before he could brush it away. Then, suddenly, the flame caught and for a few stolen moments he could see. The first thing his eyes registered was Machen sitting on the floor, a look of dumb confusion on his face. Dale shouted at him to get up. They had all agreed that under no circumstances should anyone raise their voice, but he figured he was allowed one transgression. Rolly was still hard at it on the far wall, working with the vigour of a man half his age. To his delight, Dale's quick evaluation concluded that they were almost done.

  Then his eyes settled on Lucy, standing motionless in the centre of the room with her head bowed. Bizarrely, she seemed a few inches taller than normal. The top of her head was usually level with his shoulder, but now she could rest her chin there if she wanted. He thought she mu
st be standing on something, or perhaps the uneven floor in this place was higher on one side of the room than the other. But when he looked down, he saw that her feet were off the ground. She was hovering. Levitating. Then, she started talking.

  “Hurry! They're here, waiting. I cannot keep them away much longer.”

  “Who's here?”

  “The evil ones.” It wasn't Lucy's voice. Her mouth was moving, but the voice coming out was softer than hers, more timid. Furthermore, this voice spoke in a flawless local accent, the words rising and falling in pitch.

  “You're not Lucy,” Dale said, his voice quivering. “Who are you?”

  “You already know who I am,” said the thing that wasn't Lucy. “My name is Elizabeth.”

  “What are you doing to my friend?”

  “Protecting her.”

  “From what?”

  “The others. They want to possess this shell. Yours, too.”

  “Why do they want to possess her... us?”

  “They... They wish that you can take them away from this place. They have been bound here so long.”

  “Where do they want to go?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “They want to use us as vehicles?”

  “Like ships...” The thing that wasn't Lucy appeared to be having great difficulty forming words, her voice now breathless and rasping. “Hurry, finish your work. Trap them.”

  “We're trying. What else can we do?”

  “Ceiling.”

  “She's right,” said Machen from his position on the floor. “Everything's covered up now, like. Except the ceiling. That's all still full of scribbles.”

  The lighter died again, and Dale threw it to the floor in frustration. He stretched, but the ceiling was just out of his reach. The distance could be made up if he jumped but that wouldn't be a very effective method of painting. Plus, he was unsure what would happen if somebody his size started jumping up and down in a subterranean chamber. Then he had an idea. He felt about with his hands until he located the altar, and climbed on top of it. “Pass me some paint and a brush!” he shouted.

  Someone thrust a paint brush at his stomach. He grabbed it, then flailed around until he felt a tin of paint someone was holding up. “Rolly, Machen, keep trying to make those lighters work!” In the harsh light of the sparks, Dale dipped the brush in the tin then immediately threw his arm over his head. For one surreal moment, he felt like a rock star pumping a fist into the air on a stage before thousands of salivating fans. Then he sent his arm slashing in a diagonal motion. The strike must have hurt the heart of the beast, as there was an almost audible groan from the massed ranks of shadows lurking all around them and the house itself seemed to sigh.

  He dipped the brush again, adjusted his position slightly, then attacked a different part of the ceiling. Maybe the strings of words and letters were a physical representation of an incantation of some kind, and the most effective way of breaking the spell would be to disrupt the continuity. He moved his arm in huge, all-encompassing strokes. Up and down, left and right. His shoulder ached and white hot bolts of pain shot through his back and neck from the effort. More than once, Dale felt something touch him, something of very little substance. Whatever it was made his skin crawl.

  When the tin of paint he was using was empty, he dropped it to the floor and asked for another. Somebody pushed a plastic handle into his hand. He could tell by its weight the second tin was almost empty. Also, it was smaller than the last, making it difficult to force the head of the brush into the sticky liquid near the bottom. When Dale raised his arm to start painting again he just had to hope there was some paint on the brush. While he worked, Rolly and Machen frantically strummed at their lighters and did a quick inventory, counting off the empty tins which were clattered noisily against a wall.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

  That must mean...

  “Is this the last tin?”

  “We think so.”

  “Let's see where we are at, shall we?” Dale stopped painting, stepped off the altar and rested his hands on his knees. He was exhausted. He thought he had actually ran out of paint a while ago, and since then had simply been rubbing a dry brush against the ceiling. To his, and probably everyone else's surprise, Machen finally succeeded in lighting a candle and the tiny room was suddenly filled with a pale yellow glow.

  Dale looked up to admire his handiwork. Apart from a few scattered spots where symbols were still visible, the ceiling was now covered in a hideous collage of colour. He realised he hadn't heard a peep out of Lucy since her last outburst, which to him it felt like hours though it could have been no more than a few minutes. She was still standing in the centre of the room, but thankfully had seemed to have stopped levitating. “Lucy?”

  “What?”

  “Is that you?”

  “Of course its me, stupe. Who d'ya think it is?”

  Lucy was back. Which was just as well because if he took her back to Southampton with a Welsh accent, her family would kill him.

  Rolly lit another candle. “And then there was light!” he said, somewhat belatedly.

  “Which makes it all the more impressive that he did everything else in the dark,” snapped Lucy, proving she was indeed back to her old self and firing on all cylinders again.

  As Dale examined their handiwork he saw that despite functioning blind and much of the time in a state of near-terror, as a group they'd performed admirably. The once-uniform stone walls were now adorned with garish streaks of paint. Red, white, green, blue. In places, two or more colours ran together or had been daubed over each other. The entire room looked like a blown-up child's painting. The work wouldn't win any awards for artistic achievement, though it could be an outside bet for some weird abstract piece. The important thing was, virtually no weird symbols were visible any more.

  All four of them were standing around the altar, which still took pride of place in the centre of the room, and all four suddenly realized this at the same time and retreated a few awkward steps back. They watched as Rolly passed his candle to Machen and began rummaging through his plethora of pockets. He eventually pulled out Dale's notebook and began leafing through it. Then, apparently finding what he was looking for, he stooped to pick up one of the paint brushes that littered the floor.

  “What are you doing now?” asked Dale, bewildered.

  “Looking for some space,” Rolly replied. Then, apparently finding one, began painting new symbols on an unbroken diagonal streak of white smeared on a wall.

  “What are you doing? Stop!” Machen said, and made a movement toward the older man.

  “Relax,” Rolly said. “It's what they call a closing spell. A very powerful one, or so I am led to believe. As long as it stays here, it renders any other spell carried out on the grounds obsolete. Think of it as a kind of insurance policy.”

  “Where did you find it?” Lucy asked. “Has it been handed down through generations of custodians?”

  “No. I looked it up on the internet before the power went out.”

  Lucy looked at Dale, then back at Rolly. “Well, I guess that would be okay.”

  Rolly smirked, “Thank you for allowing me to indulge myself, Miss.”

  “Don't mention it,” said Lucy. She then abruptly turned and without another word stuck her bum in the air and began scooting back through the tunnel. After her graceful exit, the others followed suit and began filing out of the tiny subterranean hovel. Dale was the last to leave.

  Chapter 38:

  Epilogue

  Five months after their first eventful stay at Sker House, Dale and Lucy returned unannounced one unseasonably sunny Saturday afternoon. At first glance, nothing much seemed to have changed. The building was just as large and imposing as ever, except there wasn't enough room to put the car in the car park any more. “Business must have picked up!” Dale said as he carefully manoeuvred into a tight space on the road outside.

  “That's nice,” Lucy giggle
d from the passenger seat. As she opened the door a ray of sunlight caught the diamond encrusted in the ring on her finger, making Dale's heart swell with pride. They walked hand in hand down the drive to the foyer, the front door of which stood open invitingly. The soft buzz of conversation came from inside. They had purposely arrived just before dinner so they could have one of Ruth's home-cooked meals, and were surprised to find the place already so lively.

  To Dale's relief, the bar area was still intact. The only new addition to the décor seemed to be the framed magazine article hanging up behind the bar in such a position that it would attract the most attention. The two-page spread was blown up so big that even from some distance, the title and byline were plainly visible, superimposed over a breathtaking colour photo of Sker House set against a dramatic skyline filled with angry, bloated grey clouds:

  Secrets of Sker, by Dale Morgan.

  Original images and additional research by Lucy Kerr.

  In the top left corner were two pictures of the authors. The minute the issue of Solent News containing their article was published, Dale had sent down a couple of copies, and was glad to see that Machen approved. The published feature concentrated mainly on the macabre history of Sker rather than the 'other business.' Neither Dale nor Lucy had any great desire to recount any of the more recent bizarre happenings they were involved in, many of which Lucy took incredibly personally and would take a hell of a lot of explaining, anyway.

  Old Rolly was sitting in his usual place alone at a table in the corner, and had spotted them when they came in. He watched them expectantly, the beginnings of a smile tugging on the corners of a mouth still mostly obscured by a tangled mass of white facial hair. Lucy did a little squeal and rushed over to greet him, while Dale went to get the pre-dinner drinks. He planned to enjoy his only alcoholic beverage as much as he could. At the bar, he was surprised to find a sharp-featured but pleasant-looking middle-aged woman polishing glasses. “Yes, my lovely?” she said. “What can I get you?”