Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth

by Chris Priestley

  ‘What time is it, miss?’ I asked again, no longer sure whether she had ever answered.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ she said, making no attempt to look at her watch.

  I was shocked to see that the view outside was now almost monochrome: a vague sketch in shades of blue, while only the very uppermost edge of the bank was lit by the dying sun.

  ‘My grandfather will be so worried,’ I said forlornly. ‘He will be wondering what has become of me. I wish I could tell him that I was safe.’

  ‘Your grandfather?’ said the Woman in White.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He is meeting me at King’s Cross Station and we are going to travel across London together to Charing Cross, where we shall board another train. At least I hope we shall. With all this delay, we may have to catch a later train and –’

  ‘It is very kind of your grandfather to take such an interest in his grandson’s education.’

  ‘My grandfather pays for my schooling, miss,’ I said. ‘He has always taken a special interest in my education. He had an unfortunate experience as a schoolboy and it affected him deeply.’

  ‘Really?’ she said.

  ‘He was at a school where there was a terrible incident involving one of the boys.’

  ‘How awful,’ said the Woman in White. ‘Do tell.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to ignore the grin she now wore and determined to wipe it from her face. ‘Actually, there was a suicide.’

  She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry if that shocks you.’ I hoped very much that it had. ‘But I’m afraid that was what happened. And I’m afraid it gets much, much worse.’

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘It concerns the headmaster of my grandfather’s school. The boys called him Monty. His real name was Montague –’

  ‘And what did this Monty do?’ she interrupted.

  ‘He put it about that a certain boy was stealing things from the other boys. This lad was already unpopular and they needed no further encouragement to attack the poor soul and beat him mercilessly.’

  The Woman in White looked singularly unimpressed and so I felt I needed to get to the point of the tale.

  ‘That hardly seems extraordinary, I know,’ I said. ‘Boys are often beaten at school, by other boys and by the teachers. But this was different. The beatings went on and on and became more and more vicious with each new theft. And, of course, there was the boy’s innocence to take into consideration.’

  ‘He was innocent?’ she asked in a curious voice, as if she already knew the answer.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And what is more, it was the headmaster –’

  ‘Montague,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, annoyed by the interruption. ‘It was he who had stolen all the things. The boy was blameless.’

  ‘And this boy committed suicide,’ she said, ‘before the headmaster’s crime was discovered?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Why did she insist upon ruining my telling of the story? ‘My grandfather was so upset by this that he was determined that none of his children or grandchildren should ever be subjected to such treatment.’

  ‘He felt guilty?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘I cannot see what reason he would have to feel guilty,’ I said, though I had wondered this myself many times.

  ‘Because he was one of the boys who beat that poor unfortunate soul and drove him to suicide,’ she said.

  ‘I find it offensive that you would suggest that,’ I protested.

  ‘But in your heart you have always felt it to be true, haven’t you?’

  She reached over and touched my hand. In the instant that she did so, I was transported, as if in a dream, to another place, to a room I did not recognise – and yet, as with a dream, I knew exactly where I was.

  I stood at one end of a school dormitory, looking along a row of beds to where a group of boys were gathered in front of another lad who was pleading his innocence to them. A boy stepped forward from the pack and punched him hard in the stomach, making him groan and collapse to the floor, where the same boy led a vicious bout of kicking and stamping. Despite my only having seen him as an old man, I somehow knew this boy to be grandfather.

  ‘How?’ was all I could say to her when the vision faded and I found myself once more in the railway carriage.

  ‘You’ve had a moment of revelation, that is all,’ she said. ‘But you should sleep now. You look so tired.’

  I was beyond tiredness. I was like a somnambulist, more asleep than awake. I began to wonder if all of this – the Woman in White, the train journey, my sleeping fellow passengers – were not itself part of a dream and I had yet to leave my bed.

  ‘Could you not tell me one more story?’ I said, for I wanted something on which to concentrate. Dream or no dream, I had the strongest feeling that I should not let myself fall into that deep slumber that seemed to await me like the blackness of a bottomless pit.

  g

  A Crack in the Wall

  Philip stood with his mother in the large empty room that was to be his bedroom. It was an attic room, with the ceiling sloping down almost to the floor on one side and a dormer window giving views of the cherry tree lined crescent below.

  ‘Oh dear me, no,’ said his mother, tapping her hands together in a swift patter. ‘This wallpaper will have to go. Look at it: that ghastly yellow tinge. It is enough to send someone out of their wits. I shall have Benson and his fellows remove it immediately.’

  Philip rather liked the wallpaper, but he knew better than to get involved in matters of interior decor, which was undisputedly his mother’s domain.

  In fact, so obsessed had she become with it that Philip’s father had commented more than once that the sole reason for moving to this new house in Chelsea was because Philip’s mother had run out of ideas for their old home.

  For as long as Philip could remember, there had been a continual procession of decorators in and out of the house, as well as delivery men bringing the latest fashion in pots and rugs and furniture, while removal men arrived to take away the previous year’s fashion.

  But though Philip had not wanted to move, he was forced to admit that the new house was far better than their old one, bigger and grander and on a much nicer street. And more to the point, his room was bigger and grander too.

  And so workmen were duly instructed to come and rid Philip’s bedroom-to-be of its yellow wallpaper and replace it with something of his mother’s choosing.

  Mr Benson was a tall and well-built man, with close-cropped hair and small piercing eyes, set deep in a wide and powerful face.

  He had a boy called Tommy working with him, a gangly, jug-eared lad of about fifteen or so, Philip guessed, with a habit of coughing slightly before he said anything.

  For all his effusive ‘Yes, madam’s and ‘Of course, madam’s, Philip could tell from his bearing that Benson was a man for whom servility did not come naturally. He noticed that the ingratiating smile left Benson’s lips the instant his mother’s back was turned, and saw the quick roll of the eyes at his mother’s more outlandish requests.

  While the work was going on, Philip was forced to sleep in a guest room that his mother had already decorated in a particularly gross and feminine fashion, with not a surface left free of ornamention of some sort or another. He could not move for ceramic vases and peacock feathers, and so had a special interest in seeing that his attic room was completed with the utmost haste.

  As soon as he was washed and dressed and breakfasted, Philip would go and stand in the doorway, checking on the workmen’s progress as they stripped the wallpaper from the walls and began to repair and redecorate.

  His first visits had been greeted by warm hellos from man and boy, and with hair ruffles and winks from Benson. But with each successive visit, the greetings had become less and less enthusiastic, until a kind of stand-off had occurred, with Philip making his impatience and disappointment in their slow progress quite as obvious as Benson�
�s resentment of being watched over.

  Benson tried to intimidate Philip into leaving them alone, but Philip was not easily intimidated. Every now and then, Benson would give Philip a look that made it clear that he would have liked to cuff the boy round the ear and send him sprawling, just as Philip had seen him do once with the gormless Tommy. But still Philip kept his vigil at the doorway. He was keenly aware that there was little the man could do or complain about, as Philip always took great pains never to actually get in their way.

  g

  ‘For the love of –’ said Tommy one bright morning, the sun sending a golden beam through the dormer window and lighting up a strip of the bare floorboards.

  ‘What’s up, Tommy?’ said Benson.

  ‘It’s this crack here, Mr Benson,’ said Tommy despairingly. ‘I’ve tried everything to fill it but it just won’t stick. Every time I fills it, it just pops out and falls on the floor. I don’t know what to try next.’

  ‘Don’t get yourself all het up about it, Tommy,’ said Benson, giving the boy a kindly pat on the shoulder. ‘Leave it with me. You’re probably making your filler a bit too wet. Or too dry. Who knows? I’ll sort it out. There’s plenty of other stuff to be getting on with.’

  Philip watched from the doorway. Benson saw him and gave him a wink. He’s in a good mood today, thought Philip. Benson set about mixing up some filler on a small palette, whistling a jaunty tune as he did so; then he began to fill the crack. Philip stepped forward to have a better look.

  ‘There now,’ said Benson. ‘That ain’t so bad now, is it, young master?’

  ‘Will it fall off like before?’ asked Philip.

  ‘Fall off?’ said Benson with a sniff. ‘I think I knows how to fill a bit of cracked plaster after thirty-odd years doing it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Philip, sensing he had offended the man.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I takes a lot of pride in what I do.’

  Philip nodded.

  ‘It’s too easy just to slap things up like they do today. You see them old churches and big houses and such. Just you look at the craftsmanship there. You don’t get that these days, I’ll tell you straight. These youngsters ain’t got the patience.’

  ‘Like Tommy, you mean,’ said Philip.

  Benson frowned and squinted at him.

  ‘Tommy’s all right,’ said Benson. ‘I ain’t saying nothing about Tommy. He tries his best. He’s had a hard life too, though you never hears him complain.’

  Again, Philip could tell he had caused offence, though he was not altogether sure why.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘You’re a right one for the sorrys, ain’t you,’ said Benson, his eyes cold despite the smile.

  g

  When Philip returned after lunch and peeped round the doorway he saw that Benson’s cheerful mood had evaporated. He was down on his haunches. The crack was back.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Benson, picking up one of the larger pieces of filler lying on the floor.

  ‘That’s just the same as what happened to me,’ said Tommy.

  ‘It don’t make sense,’ said Benson, getting up and peering at the crack resentfully. ‘It’s almost like something’s pushing the filler out.’

  ‘What we going to do, Mr Benson?’ said Tommy. ‘It’ll probably fall out again, won’t it?’

  Benson sighed and nodded.

  ‘It does seem so, Tommy boy,’ he said. He looked round and Philip ducked back behind the wall, worried that he had been seen, but Benson was merely being cautious.

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do, lad,’ he said, pulling Tommy closer. ‘We’re going to paper over it.’

  ‘Paper over it?’ repeated Tommy, a trace of admonishment in his voice.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Benson a little more forcefully. ‘These spoilt toffs here won’t know the difference, will they? They’ll stick a bloody great painting over it and never know there was ever a problem. And if they ever do find it, who’s to say there hasn’t been some kind of subsidence or something?’

  ‘Subsidence?’ repeated Tommy.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Benson, ruffling his hair. ‘Loads of it round here. It’s the river, you see. Wet clay and all that. We’ll get this papering done first thing tomorrow before any of them spots it and makes us fill the damned thing again.’

  Philip smiled to himself, remembering Benson’s speech about the rise of shoddy workmanship. What a fraud he was. There was always something satisfying about catching adults in a web of their own pomposity, and Philip savoured the moment – right up until the workmen’s footsteps began to head his way and Philip had to scamper down the hall as quickly and as quietly as possible.

  g

  Philip stood in the deserted room and tried to take possession of it. He knew that it would be his room, that in reality it was already his room, but it didn’t feel like that.

  Empty of furniture, stripped of wallpaper and carpet, it seemed like an empty vessel waiting to be claimed by anyone who so chose.

  Philip shuffled round in a circle, taking in the whole room. And as he turned, he noticed the crack in the wall that had so confounded the workmen.

  Philip walked hesitantly over to it, a floorboard creaking plaintively as he did so.

  g

  g

  He stood about a foot away from the wall and, after a pause in which he had to resist the impulse to turn and walk away, he leaned forward and peered into the crack. There was something in there.

  Philip tried to poke his finger in, but the gap was too narrow. He looked round and saw that Benson had left a bag of nails by the door, so he picked one up and returned to the crack in the plaster.

  A few seconds of exploration with the point of the nail and out tumbled a tiny folded-up piece of what he at first took to be paper but, as he opened it, realised was probably parchment.

  It was covered in strange markings and symbols. Down one side there was something he presumed to be writing, though it was in a language and a script he did not recognise.

  Why someone would have placed the parchment in a crack in the wall was a total mystery to him. But Philip rather liked mysteries.

  As he looked up from the parchment he had the distinct impression that he had detected movement, though for a moment he could not think from where. Then Philip leaned forward until his eyelashes brushed against the tattered edge of the crack.

  Was it his imagination? No, no, he was sure of it. There was something there. His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the gloom. There was another room through the crack. He could just detect the far wall of a room that looked to be a mirror of the one in which he stood.

  But even as his eyes confirmed this to be the case, his mind told him that it was an impossibility. He stepped back and tried to make sense of it, but he could not.

  His room was at the gable end of the house. The wall with the crack was an outside wall; the house was detached. There was nothing beyond it save an alleyway leading to a coach house that stood in the shade of a large plane tree. Just as he became entangled in these conflicting realities, something seemed to flicker past the crack.

  Philip hesistated, then leaned tentatively forward, peering in, but though the room remained, all was still. He stepped forward, pressing his face against the wall again, and squinted into the crevice.

  He had hoped that greater scrutiny would reveal this room to be an illusion, a trick of his imagination; but far from it. He could see very clearly now that, however impossible it seemed to be, there was a room beyond that wall and, moreover, there was someone in it.

  Standing at the far side of the room was a tall, thin figure dressed in black, with his back to Philip, almost as if he too were inspecting a crack in the wall at that end of the room.

  Philip gasped, and at the sound of his voice the man in black began to turn round, slowly, hesitatingly. Philip’s heart was thumping at his ribs like a bare-knuckle boxer, but he felt compelled to watch.

&
nbsp; The man faced him, but Philip could not make out the features of that face. A shadow covered the upper part of his torso, though what was casting it was a mystery. It was almost as if he carried his own shadow with him. He stood, his head tilted slightly as if listening, his hands twitching. Then suddenly he began to walk with great purpose straight towards Philip, who pushed himself away from the wall. As soon as did so, he backed straight into someone and yelled out in panic.

  ‘Well now,’ said a voice behind him. ‘What’s all this?’

  Philip pointed towards the wall but, try as he might, he couldn’t quite make his mouth form the words he wanted.

  ‘Th-th-there’s s-someone there!’ he blurted out at last.

  Tommy snorted.

  ‘Where?’ said Benson. ‘What are you talking about? Are you all right, young fellow?’

  ‘On the other side of the wall,’ said Philip, feeling a bit stronger now that Benson was at his side. ‘You can see him through the crack.’

  Benson looked at the floor beneath the crack and saw the pieces of plaster that had fallen when Philip had pulled the parchment free.

  ‘That’s not very helpful, is it now?’ said Benson coldly. ‘There’s enough of a crack there without you giving it a helping hand. I suppose you think that’s amusing, eh? To make us poor folk have to work a little harder?’

  ‘But the other side . . .’

  ‘There ain’t nothing on the other side of that wall but stinking London air,’ said Benson crossly. ‘Tommy, mix up some paste and get a roll of that paper. Let’s make a start on the room, shall we, before this young fellow brings the whole place down upon our heads.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you fill that hole first?’ said Philip.

  Benson put one of his great hands on Philip’s shoulder and eased him firmly out of the room.

  ‘You run along now,’ he said, ‘and leave us to work, there’s a good lad.’

  Then he gave Philip a shove – a hard shove – and turned back to the room.

  g

  Philip’s mother was a little surprised when Philip told her he was never going to sleep in the room he had seemed so keen on and was determined to remain in the guest room, despite all his previous complaints.