‘I don’t understand,’ I said, my voice sounding dry and cracked.
‘You’ve been in a train wreck, son,’ said one of the policemen. ‘A terrible one. You was lucky.’
I did not feel especially lucky. I suddenly remembered the others in my compartment and tried to sit upright, wincing with pain at the effort and sinking back down breathlessly.
‘There were other passengers,’ I hissed. ‘Others in my compartment.’
The two men exchanged a glance.
‘There was a young lady dressed in white, a man of the cloth, another who –’
One of them leaned forward and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Like I said,’ he murmured. ‘You was lucky.’
I looked from face to face and back towards the scene of chaos and destruction. Their meaning was clear to me even in my confused state, but I couldn’t quite come to terms with it. Was I really the sole survivor from that compartment?
‘Your mother’ll be pleased to see you, at any rate,’ said one of the policemen. ‘She’s been up there waiting for –’
‘She’s not my . . .’
But I could not finish the sentence.
‘What was that, son?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
For, strange to say, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to see a familiar face. I’m not ashamed to admit that tears now sprang to my eyes. The first policeman put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
‘She’s been out of her mind with worry. We’ve kept everyone back, but there don’t seem to be too much wrong with you. I think we can get you to her soon enough.’
I began now to become more aware of what was going on in the dark around us. Rescuers were moving about the scene, occasionally obscured by drifting smoke. Injured people were whimpering. A woman was crying hysterically. There was an acrid smell in the air. A small fire burned near the tunnel’s mouth and made its depths all the darker.
But it was by this firelight, in fact, that I saw her: the woman from the carriage, the Woman in White, the storyteller. I gasped and grinned.
How incredible, I thought, that she should have escaped from the wreck utterly unharmed, not only unharmed but unblemished, her white clothes still unmarked and gleaming bright against the darkness. It was a miracle.
I was pleased, too, to see that with her were the other occupants of our carriage: the Major, the Farmer, the Bishop, the Surgeon. They were also unharmed, it seemed. There were others there I did not know, gathered in a group beside her.
The policeman was obviously misinformed, and I was very pleased that he was. These people stood apart, no doubt allowing the injured to be treated without obstruction. Far from being the sole survivor, by some freak of misfortune it looked as though I was the only one in our compartment who had come to any harm.
But then, as I looked away, I saw a stretcher being carried past me up the steep zigzag path of the embankment, the bearers struggling to find their footing and skidding to a halt. The body they bore was one of the accident’s fatalities, a blanket covering the head, and as the bearers slipped, so too did the blanket, and the face was uncovered only inches from mine.
It was horribly torn and beaten about, but through the blood and bruises I was able to discern the features of the Major I could somehow still see, standing in his unharmed form, at the tunnel’s mouth.
A terrible pain gripped my heart and I hissed and sank back. The Woman in White took some hurried steps towards me, moving with a ghastly, flickering speed. There was a fire burning between us, but the resulting heat haze did not altogether account for the strange, blurred quality of her approach. She stretched out an arm towards me, and her grasping fingers seemed to be the only things in sharp focus.
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Suddenly air rushed into my lungs and life back into my limbs and her arm dropped to her side. Her shimmering, distorted face stared at me for a moment and then she retreated back towards the tunnel in the same odd, jerking manner in which she had advanced. How could I ever have thought that face to be beautiful?
I saw everything clearly now. That outstretched, clutching hand had awakened some long dormant memory. She was the mysterious woman from the riverbank all those years ago when I had nearly drowned.
But she had been no guardian angel. She was not trying to help me at all. She had been trying to claim me as she had claimed the lives of my fellow passengers.
She was the thing that remained forever unseen in my visions of her tales. She lurked near the bodies of those whose lives were so cruelly taken. She was there always, waiting.
As the stretcher bearers lifted me up, I saw her rejoining the others. She turned once and smiled back at me, then turned again, shepherding the dead into the dreadful, unbounded and unending darkness of that tunnel.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Chris Priestley is the acclaimed author of the spine-tingling collections Uncle Montague’s Tales of Terror, Tales of Terror from the Black Ship and Tales of Terror from the Tunnel’s Mouth, all published by Bloomsbury. Chris is also an illustrator, painter and cartoonist. He lives with his family in Cambridge and is currently writing a novel called The Dead of Winter.
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ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
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David Roberts is an award-winning illustrator who has worked with a huge variety of authors, including Philip Ardagh and Georgia Byng. He is the creator of the Dirty Bertie series. David lives in London.
Table of Contents
Cover
Imprint
Also by Chris Priestley
Dedication
1. The Train
2. The Glasshouse
3. The Island
4. A New Governess
5. The Little People
6. The Crotach Stone
7. Gerald
8. Sister Veronica
9. The Whispering Boy
10. A Crack in the Wall
11. The Tunnel’s Mouth
About the Author
Table of Contents
Cover
Imprint
Also by Chris Priestley
Dedication
1. The Train
2. The Glasshouse
3. The Island
4. A New Governess
5. The Little People
6. The Crotach Stone
7. Gerald
8. Sister Veronica
9. The Whispering Boy
10. A Crack in the Wall
11. The Tunnel’s Mouth
About the Author
Table of Contents
Cover
Imprint
Also by Chris Priestley
Dedication
1. The Train
2. The Glasshouse
3. The Island
4. A New Governess
5. The Little People
6. The Crotach Stone
7. Gerald
8. Sister Veronica
9. The Whispering Boy
10. A Crack in the Wall
11. The Tunnel’s Mouth
About the Author
Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth Page 16
