The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi)

by David Wiltshire

  The Nightmare Man

  (Child of the Vodyanoi)

  David Wiltshire

  The Nightmare Man

  They froze, looking at each other, checking to see that they had heard right. Robertson wordlessly nodded confirmation.

  Inskip swallowed, and whispered, ‘Could it have been the wind?5

  Robertson never answered.

  This time something in the next room fell over. No way could it have been the wind.

  Surrounded by the evidence of insane violence, Inskip, tough though he was, felt decidedly shaky. Not for the first time he was glad of the presence of the bulky Robertson, who was reaching for a chair leg lying loose on the floor.

  The Inspector followed suit and armed himself. They moved slowly to the door leading into the bedroom. Inskip was aware of a totally alien feeling, a realization that he had no idea what to expect, only a ghastly expectancy.

  They let the door swing open, fists and sticks ready to lash in self-defence.

  The wind continued to moan, but nothing came from the blackness. The door wasn’t wide enough for them to go through together. Inskip gritted his teeth and knew it would have to be him first; it came with the rank.

  He uttered a silent prayer and started to edge into the room. As his face came around the door there was a sudden bloodcurdling snarl.

  For my Father

  Husky husky hush

  Here comes the bogey man;

  Don't let him come too close to you - He’ll catch you if he can.

  * * *

  Attributed to Henry Hall

  THE NIGHTMARE MAN

  ISBN 0 600 20447 2

  * * *

  First published in Great Britain 1978

  by Robert Hale Ltd

  Copyright © 1978 by David Wiltshire

  * * *

  Hamlyn Paperbacks are published by

  The Hamlyn Publishing Group Ltd,

  Astronaut House,

  Feltham,

  Middlesex, England

  (Paperback Division : Hamlyn Paperbacks,

  Banda House, Cambridge Grove,

  Hammersmith, London W6 0LE)

  * * *

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks

  * * *

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  1

  A cold wind blew straight in from the Atlantic, bringing long grey rollers into the sea loch. The hills on either side, dark and forbidding, pointed like accusing fingers at the belligerent ocean.

  At the small, stony beach the water ended in boiling surf, the wind funnelling on up the valley, rippling the brown dead heather, until at the peak of Benn Levitt the icy wisps of frozen snow killed all movement.

  The pebbles grew bigger away from the water’s edge, ending in a great mound of oval stones piled up in front of a small croft. Only the top of its chimneys faced the raging elements.

  On the beach was a woman, dressed in a large fashionable lambskin coat, tied incongruously at the waist with string. As she walked away from the house, a black and white collie ran barking at her feet.

  Self-reliant, poised, Sheila Anderson at thirty-three was already a successful television broadcaster. Recently she had turned to feature writing, and had bought the near-derelict croft over a year ago.

  Now she came to this island in the Outer Hebrides from Glasgow whenever she could, and particularly when starting on a new script. The wild desolate scenery, the giant columns of rock towering out of an always restless sea seemed to purge, from her the slick gloss of urban living. Her writing was already being hailed as the product of the new vigorous independent Scotland.

  Tightening the silk scarf around her head, she threw the ball that Whisky, her collie, was eagerly waiting for, and ran after him to keep herself warm. She reckoned she had half-an-hour before night came, swiftly as it did in these northern latitudes.

  She passed the huge central rock that jutted pugnaciously out into the sea, and effectively divided the little cove into two parts.

  At the far end of the beach she sheltered in the lee of the giant cliffs and lit a cigarette, using her jacket to complete the windbreak.

  She got it going and took a good long pull, enjoying the added flavour of the smoke against the sea air.

  Three whole weeks before her and a script for a new ten-episode Scottish historical drama to work on. She’d never been up here in winter so long before, and for a moment wondered if she had bitten off more than she could chew. Almost immediately she rejected the idea. She would be able to work non-stop, without distraction, and she had brought enough food over in the car to last easily. And besides, she had Whisky for company.

  Something about the waves, the rocks, the violent, awe inspiring feel of nature began to weave its spell on her. Already she could visualize the initial shots of the first episode. A sudden urgency to get the jumble of opening sentences already whirling around in her mind down on to paper, made her push herself upright from the cliff.

  She tossed the cigarette into the wind and shrugged further into her coat. The dog finished nosing in some rocks and came bounding along as she set off back towards the croft.

  She threw the ball for Whisky, who chased after it as it bounced erratically on the loosely piled stones. He adroitly caught it in the air and came bounding back for another throw. Three more times he retrieved it, until it sharply deflected to the right and went out of sight behind the large rock that- divided the beach. He ran after it as usual* then suddenly pulled up, ears erect, nose quivering.

  Sheila Anderson shouted encouragement, but he didn’t move, and he stopped barking. Puzzled, she made towards him. When she got nearer, Whisky looked quickly over his shoulder, and then backed nervously up against her legs, growling at something still out of her view.

  “What is it, boy? Lost it have you? Go on—fetch!”

  Strangely, the dog was shaking. Although it was cold, she hadn’t seen him doing that before. Sheila Anderson bent down and gave him an encouraging pat, and then walked right up to the edge of the rock and looked around.

  The ball lay at her feet, but she never saw it.

  Sheila Anderson could only gape at what she took to be a small, near-wingless aircraft. But it was like nothing she had ever seen before. It resembled a long bob-sledge, some twenty feet in length, flat and low, but with a canopy of dark perspex near the front, just behind a cone-shaped nose. Two small wings projected from the sides, and there were two more at the back, at ninety degrees to the. others, forming a fin, like a bomb.

  She got over the shock, and hesitantly picked her way, nearer, frightened it might explode or something. She was utterly confused. How had it appeared, because it certainly wasn’t there on the way out, and it couldn’t have landed, since she hadn’t seen or heard a thing? The only possibility was that it had been washed ashore. But even that was strange, since it was well above the water line.

  She reached the black perspex dome. It was like one-way ambulance glass—she could see nothing inside, no trace of a pilot, nothing.

  Sheila Anderson didn’t know what to do.

  Had it crashed? Was there somebody inside, trapped, unconscious, perhaps dying?

  She steeled herself and reached out her hand. With her knuckles she gave a quick tap on the black shining glass that, reminded her, irrationally, of the
type of mirror sunglasses that reflected back at people. She felt daft as she called out in a thin hesitant voice.

  “Hello. Hello.”

  The surf rolled in and crashed like thunder on the beach. If there was a reply, she did not hear it.

  Gaining courage, she bent down and, shielding what poor light there was, tried to see in. At first there was nothing, but as she traversed slowly, she suddenly became aware of a dull* diffused, red light coming from somewhere at the front.

  She shot back then, stumbling on the rocks and twisting her ankle. She had to get help. Calling Whisky, she half ran, half walked, back across the pebbles until she reached the short springy turf that led away into the deep gloom of the valley.

  The car was ready to go, she hadn’t put it away into the little lean-to shed. But her mind was in a whirl. Should she go into Inverdee, to the police, or to the Coastguards at Broughty Head? They were nearer but. ..

  It was then that she heard the door banging—her door. She stopped dead, rooted to the spot in terror. Sheila Anderson knew she had closed it. Hadn’t she? Was there somebody in there?

  She made for the car, intent now on only one thing—to get away. When she found it locked she nearly whimpered. The ignition keys were in the house.

  She stood in awful indecision, watching the door swinging and banging in the wind. Perhaps she hadn’t set the latch down properly—it was a severe wind. In desperation she tried shouting.

  “Is anybody there?”

  She didn’t shout loud enough. Her voice was carried away in the wind.

  The door continued to bang.

  Her teeth began to chatter. She realized she would have to do something—and soon. If she stayed out here much longer, with night falling, she could be in real trouble.

  Desperately she rallied herself, and edged nearer to the door. She could see nothing inside, only blackness. What frightened her most was that she only had oil lamps for lighting. She would have to go in, into the darkness, find the matches on the table, and wait until the wick was really alight before she would be able to see properly.

  The wind gusted again, its icy fingers reaching right into her. She didn’t realize she was whimpering as she stopped the swinging door with her foot, and eased herself into the room."

  It was like standing in oblivion. She could see nothing, either through absolute darkness, or eyes that were so terror stricken that they refused to function. Only her heart pounding in her chest kept her in touch with reality.

  Hands outstretched before her, she moved in the direction of the table, ready to scream and run directly they brushed anything, anything remotely abnormal—alive.

  They found the edge of the table, but in her haste she knocked the box of matches on to the floor.

  Sheila Anderson knew at last that she was sobbing as she sank to her knees, hands feeling around on the floor, dreading the contact with a foot.

  She found the box, steadied herself and held it there while she struck a match. Its flare was blinding, and then it seemed to burn without light.

  She held it in front of her and stood up. All it would reveal was the lamp on the table.

  It was nearly out before her shaking hand could lift off the glass globe and touch the moist, waiting wick. She let it blaze and whirled around.

  Her thankful release of breath was audible. In the flickering light only the familiar things she wanted to see were there—the old chairs, the new desk with the typewriter.

  She laughed out loud with relief and fixed the globe over the wick.

  Sheila Anderson felt utterly foolish.

  “You big booby,” she said aloud.

  She was almost back to normal as she grabbed the car keys and made for the still banging door.

  Because of her relaxed state it took a second for' her to become aware of the shape that filled the entire doorway.

  Sheila Anderson did not scream immediately. Her heart stopped, and then fluttered again, her blood pressure dropping. Fainting, she fell back, urine streaming down her legs, her disintegrating mind full of revulsion and fear.

  As Whisky, eyes bulging, tail between his legs raced away into the night, he heard his mistress for the last time.

  Sheila Anderson had at last started to scream.

  2

  Low clouds scudded across the sky, bringing flurries of rain in the blustering wind. A lone figure stood on the hillside, eyes creased up against the elements as he measured the terrain before him. Satisfied, the man turned to his golf bag and selected a club. He pushed the tee into the sodden ground, and struggled to balance the ball against the wind. When it stayed, he stood back and took some experimental swings, more to limber up his arms stiffening in the cold than anything. Finally he addressed the ball, rocking into position on his heels.

  Before him, dropping steeply away to the valley floor was the most difficult hole of the Inverdee Golf Course.

  Not twenty yards out, and almost level with him, were the tips of the giant pine trees that led on down to the shore of Loch Slee, a quarter of a mile away. The fairway was a broad swathe cut through the forest that ended in a bright circle of green jutting out into the grey choppy water with the mountains ranged beyond.

  A ball, already high from its start on the grassy outcrop that was the seventh tee, was prone to the vagaries of the wind funnelled by the towering cliffs at the sea entrance to the loch three miles away, forcing it into a column of air that on a stormy night literally howled its way inland.

  Even on more clement occasions it was usually enough to play havoc with any golf ball that stayed too long above the shelter of the trees.

  The man readied himself for the shot, well aware of the tightness and difficulties before him.

  Ian Dunlop was thirty-seven, shortish, looking even shorter because of his broad chest and well-built shoulders. He was a dentist in the town of Inverdee, but not a true Inverdesian, not even a true Scot, despite his name. Qualifying in time to be caught up in the last weeks of National Service, he was one of the few who had volunteered for the job of Dental Surgeon to the Parachute Regiment. Two short-service commissions later the Army and Ian had parted company—still friendly.

  He had joined a seven-man group practice in Luton. It was a disaster. In three months he had all he could take of factory dentistry. In desperation he was thinking of re-applying for his commission, when a notice in the advertisement columns of the British Dental Journal, down which he was unhopefully running his eye, brought him to a halt.

  “Junior Partner required for a practice in West of Scotland Isle,” he had read. “Town of four thousand but practice draws from a large country district of mountains and lochs. Fishing, golfing, walking etc. at hand. Senior Partner wishes to become part-time after interim period.”

  He telephoned straightaway. That weekend he flew to Glasgow and took a taxi and boat to Inverdee. James McCallum had taken an instant liking to the man. A month later Dunlop had joined the only dental practice on the island, and the local community, friendly but reserved, had started to get used to the new face among its ranks.

  Now he was one of them, revelling in the close-knit kinship that it brought, rather like being in a regiment again, and as rugged and fit as when he had been in the Army—thanks to the wild splendour all around, and the ocean wastes that led away from the awesome three hundred foot cliffs of Flein until the icy fortress of Greenland rose out of the mists.

  He regularly challenged the mountains and the seas, sailing and climbing in all conditions, finding the sheer physical struggle a necessary antidote to the civilized sedentary job that required nothing of his man’s body.

  Today it was the turn of the small nine-hole golf course situated three miles to the north of the grey slated houses that clustered around the harbour of Inverdee. It was a Wednesday afternoon—his half day. The club was a bit of a white elephant in winter, it mainly being used by the tourists in the summer. The situation served him well. Golf he had to admit, gave him trouble, and the more pract
ice without anybody watching, the better.

  The club head smoothly drew away, up and wide behind his head, and poised for a fraction of a second. Then, with a swish of cut air, the steel completed a near circle, the white ball rising rapidly and seemingly almost to touch the low curtains of rain-filled clouds.

  Dunlop swore.

  It began to curve, caught in the gusts of wind. He raised a hand and shielded his eyes against a flurry of rain as he watched it fall, crackling into the waving branches of a pine a good ten yards off the fairway.

  He slid the club back into his winter bag and slung it over his shoulder. Continually keeping his eye on the place where the ball had disappeared, he took the short steep footpath straight over the brink rather than the winding route used by the trolleys and older members.

  As he slithered below the tree-line, the wind ceased to bluster and he walked briskly in the still air.

  He looked at his watch. Three minutes he would allow for the search, then he would drop another ball and press on, otherwise he would never finish before dark.

  Reaching the area, he propped his bag against a trunk and took out his little used number two iron that was mainly employed lifting aside branches.

  As he left the fairway, ferns took over from the rough grass, sprouting even longer and more rank the further into the trees he went, until ultimately the absolute ascendency of the closely packed, supremely evolved trees, deprived all light, and therefore life to anything at their feet.

  He looked around in the gloom, almost a yellow tinged night, and knew that despite the lack of ground cover he would never find the ball in there. He turned away, unable to suppress a slight shudder at the eerie, strange atmosphere. Dunlop hated this part of the course because of the trees. Forests were repugnant to him, evoking a primitive unease. He remembered his army service in West Germany, of the weeks spent on long range forest patrols up near the border with the East. Since then he had understood the Nordic preoccupation with the mythology of those great tracts of mysterious, leaf-shrouded lands reaching up to the Arctic circle.