Shadows at Midnight.: The Maynard Sims Library. Vol 1

by Maynard Sims

  Sullivan stood to face the old woman but she was already on him. The hands were skeletal, thin bones of claw, the hair on the head grey and hanging in wisps about the face. The eyes in the face were lifeless, yet in them was a fierce anger. Sullivan felt the smoothness of the silk as it wrapped around his neck. He struggled but the ghostly strength was too much. He slipped slowly into unconsciousness and death.

  The play ended its run shortly afterwards. Theatrical people are more superstitious than most, and two deaths were more than enough to end the popularity of the play. The verdict on Sullivan was death by natural causes, asphyxiation.

  DO GHOSTS CAST SHADOWS?

  Receipt of the letter inviting him for an interview to discuss the vacancy for Bursar at the Buckland School was a most welcome intrusion into a period in his life that was not proving to be one of Mr Fletcher's better ones.

  He had, in truth, rather lost his way since the liquidation of the small printing company he had inherited from his father. What that man of stern demeanour would have said to the sight of the bailiffs crawling like ants over the presses, and more dangerously, to the bankers crawling over the accounts, Mr Fletcher did not care to conjecture. It was a sadness he had not yet come to terms with that the business his father, and indeed grandfather, had built up was gone. Lost to the troublesome companions of inflation and overtrading. Why he had decided to expand his orders, with the necessary growth in his overdraft, he could not now explain, although at the time it had seemed the right, and probably only prudent course of action. That it had been the wrong course he now had time, an over abundance of time, on which to reflect.

  It was true that his small Queen Anne in Gloucestershire was his own, without the shackles of mortgage, and the staff, reduced in numbers but not in spirit, were, for the moment, paid on time. The problem was not one of assets, but of income. That had dwindled, like his confidence, to very little. Where once had been the dividends of business, and the drawings of capital from sound profits, was now the ever-constant sound of overdue bills through the letter box, but now with no means with which to pay them. He had sold some minor oil paintings a few months back, to maintain the household expenditure, but that cash had now been spent.

  Mr Fletcher, being a proud man, did not seek assistance from his remaining family, who may have been disposed to help. Somehow, on the occasions when his pride was stretched to the point of contacting them and throwing himself upon their mercy, he was prevented from doing so by the thought that they were his father's family and their disapproval of the way he had abused, in their eyes, the business would be all too much to bear.

  The letter, therefore, was a delight to receive. Especially so as he had sent the application rather in hope more than conviction, having seen the position advertised in the Country Gentleman a little over a week before. "A vacancy has arisen for the position of Bursar at this prestigious school for male boarders of eleven to sixteen years. Buckland School has a sound fiscal reputation and the successful applicant will be able to demonstrate a knowledge of accounts, monetary husbandry and prudence. Applications are invited..." Mr Fletcher was worldly enough in his way to understand that the recent matter of a small business in the hands of the receivers was not the best certification of his prudence where financial matters were concerned. So it was with some pull on his conscience that the curriculum vitae that accompanied his letter and application was not as full nor as detailed as it might more truthfully have been.

  This lie by omission troubled him more than a little, enough to disturb his thoughts, and to disrupt his sleep. Usually a heavy sleeper, he found himself waking during the night, and being troubled by the slightest sound. It was an old house, and the sounds and stresses of its nightly rituals were familiar to him. He began to fancy, however, in his moments of night time wakings that there were other, less friendly, sounds around him. Were there soft footsteps on the stair treads leading from the entrance hall? Could he hear a chair being dragged backwards from the huge table in the dining room below? Did his bedclothes feel too warm before he slipped between the sheets? as though they had been already occupied.

  At night was worrying enough but all too soon the uneasy thoughts that were plaguing his sleep began to intrude into the daylight. He began to catch sight, out of the periphery of his vision, of a figure where none should have been. As he turned to catch full sight of it, so it moved, and when he was turned full to where it appeared to have been so was it gone. Shadows began to dog his sunlight hours as well, falling like shafts of night at his feet, where there should have been none.

  One bright afternoon he was half reading, half dozing in his deckchair under the old chestnut tree in the west pasture when he felt a sudden chill. He had been daydreaming about the job interview, which was the next day, and imagining the possible face of the interviewer, and the range of questions he might ask, when a shiver ran through him. Involuntarily he drew his coat around him, which movement caused his book to slip from his fingers onto the grass. He leant down to retrieve it when he felt what he was certain at the time, but less so later, was two hands push him robustly from behind until he fell from the chair to land sitting on the grass. When he looked for the perpetrator of this mischief he was puzzled to find he was alone. Neither person nor animal were present to blame for the deed. The book when he picked it up had torn in its descent, the covers having been ripped from the body of the book.

  The days since receipt of the letter had been troublesome ones, but Mr Fletcher was quick to narrow the blame at his own failings in his job application. It was his conscience that was troubling him Of that he was in no doubt. As soon as the interview was completed, hopefully successfully, then things could return to normality.

  The day of the interview came, and the weather was fine, a good omen. His butler prepared his clothing, suitable attire to impress his stability and financial prudence. The Bentley was brought round to the front of the house and Mr Fletcher, who liked to drive himself, set off for the thirty mile drive to Buckland School. It proved to be a warm day and with the windows pulled down he was enjoying the drive through the country lanes, empty of all but the occasional cyclist or horse riders.

  When he came upon the perimeter wall of the School he made a sudden, and it seemed to him, inspired decision to park the car, large and possibly ostentatious as it was, along the lane bordering the entrance and to walk from there. He concluded that it might not give the desired impression if he were to be seen gliding into the grounds in such luxury, even if he had been forced to sell some antique jewellery to pay for the months petrol ration.

  The gravel drive meandered for some few hundred yards, edged by ash and beech, and gave the impression of well-tended care. This was not the entrance drive of poverty; the fees, whatever level at which they may be set, were spent in part at least in maintaining a correct setting for the duel aspects of education and discipline.

  The School building itself, when it came into view, was impressive. Red brick with compliant ivy creeping over front and side, like an errant schoolboy climbing back into dormitory after lights out. The lawns laid out before the building were immaculate, rolled and cut to perfection. In the side distance Mr Fletcher could see the sports fields, looking equally capable of impressing even the most discerning of parents preparing to charge this establishment with the care of their precious offspring.

  It came as a slow surprise to him that he had not seen anyone about. – neither pupil nor teacher. In fact there was a palpable silence around the place that was surely uncommon in a setting that by definition was full of youthful exuberance, which in turn meant noise and plenty of it. Then he realised, of course, it was summer term, all occupants of the School were off on their respective holidays. There would be no one, except presumably the person to whom he must report for his interview.

  With this knowledge he felt a sudden return of the emotions he had felt during his own school days. It was an odd sensation, while all the feelings, fears, hopes, dreams were visit
ed upon him in less time than it took him to blink. It was as though the close proximity to the School building was transporting him back to his own childhood and the mixed memories that journey produced. It was a not unpleasant experience although the overwhelming feeling he was left with when the journey ended was one of sadness. He was very conscious he was recalling many a lost opportunity, and the ambitions for him with which his father packed him off as a boarder, were, he knew, not all realised, and some had been long ago abandoned.

  Returned now to the present he thought he caught sight of a figure at an upstairs window. He shielded his eyes from the intruding sunlight but the figure had gone. He hoped it was the interviewer and he was coming down to greet him. There was certainly not another soul to be seen, so if there were other candidates, they did not appear to be having an audience today.

  Mr Fletcher waited at the oak front door but even after a few minutes he remained alone. Whoever he had seen at the window had not appeared. He called out, quietly at first and then with more vigour but there was no reply. Soon he began to feel the rise of panic. Had he chosen the correct day? This was the School? Perhaps the time was wrong. All this he was able to check and confirm from his letter of invitation. Venue, time and date were all as they should be. All that was missing was someone to fire questions at him, to catch him out, to find the flaw in his CV, to hound out the truth that his business, like so much of his life, had failed, that he was not a suitable candidate.

  Then he heard the sound of someone walking about in the corridor above him. He moved up the stairs, peering through the banister ahead of him to see if he could catch sight of whoever was up there. The steps could still be heard but he could see no one. Then he saw a shadow pass over the top two stairs as a figure moved near them and away from them. Not pausing to call out Mr Fletcher ran to the landing at the top of the stairs and looked both ways along a dark corridor. There was nothing to be seen. All the doors along the length of the passage appeared to be shut, possibly locked for the duration of the holidays, and there was no clue to guide Mr Fletcher towards his destination.

  For no reason apart from it had to be one or the other he turned to his left and began to try each door in turn. All were as he had suspected, locked. He was sure he could hear a noise coming from one of the rooms behind him but it was too faint for him to recognise what it was. In any case, committed to this section of the corridor he mentally determined to test each door handle before returning to the top of the stairs, and trying the doors along the right hand side of the passage. The noise from that part of the building was getting louder. It sounded as if several feet were running, almost in unison, then stopping, and moving, perhaps walking, much more slowly.

  He quickly tested all the doors right up to the end wall of the corridor on this side and found them all to locked. He even put his ear to the locks of one or two but heard nothing more than dust shifting in the emptiness. Whether he had been stubborn not to admit it before, but he did so now, he realised the interview must be set up for the other part of the building, to the right of the stairwell. He moved there as quickly as he could.

  From inside one of the rooms there, he could hear movement. Nothing frenetic, maybe one or two mumbled words, the kind of noises, he decided, a panel of perhaps three interviewers might make when waiting for a candidate, a now several minutes late candidate, to arrive. Mr Fletcher adjusted his clothing to ensure he was at his smartest, composed himself, and knocked firmly upon the door in the manner, he anticipated, of one who might be described as having sound financial husbandry and monetary prudence. The desired effect did not materialise, the door remained closed. He knocked again and this time took the bold step of turning the door handle and pushing to allow himself access into the room.

  It was a fine room, the walls covered in mahogany shelves crammed with books of every size, topic and age. A sizeable desk took centre stage, its top neatly arranged with the artefacts needed for scholarly devotion. Several chairs were carefully arranged around the room, and in particular three behind the desk and one in front of it. This was indeed the place intended for the interview, but he was alone in the room. Whoever had made the sound he had previously heard was nowhere to be found.

  In the far wall was set a door, slightly ajar, and he was drawn to it, for here must be secreted the panel of interviewers, for whatever reason. He went to the door, opened it, but found nothing of any interest except a cupboard, half filled with assorted stationery. Turning back to the room he was just in time to see the outer door closing and the shadow of a figure, it might have been man or woman, almost caught by the closure. Mr Fletcher called for the person to wait, but this did not gain a response.

  He ran to the corridor and chased down it, perturbed now at the strange course of events that was unfolding. There was no one to catch up with. The corridor was empty. He found himself instead in front of one of the windows, probably the one from where he had seen the figure when he had first arrived. It was natural to look out of the window but he was not quite sure what he looking at. The pristine lawns had given way to weed and thigh high overgrown grass. The gravel drive was a pot pouri of potholes, puddles and more weeds. The carefully tended trees were grown haphazardly, branches crowding on top of each other, stretching in wild abandon, in unchecked confusion. By straining at the glass he could just about make out the sports fields, but had he not seen them earlier he would not have been able to recognise them. They were fields of wild flower and grass, no order or neat tending was in evidence.

  The sun suddenly shone directly onto the side of the building where Mr Fletcher was standing, and it streamed in through his window, and through the other windows alongside him. Shadows formed in the corridor either side of him, long shadows, perhaps of figures, possibly just shapes. Behind Mr Fletcher no shadow was cast.

  He looked from the window again and was distressed to see a lone figure coming towards the School. It was a man walking slowly along the potholed path, swinging casually the small leather case he carried. The figure looked familiar, but it did not look friendly. The building all around him was silent, as though in anticipation. Mr Fletcher found himself waving to the figure, and as he did so, the man looked up, although the face was obscured, and began running towards the School.

  MAYNARD SIMS

  www.maynard-sims.com

  Thriller novels, Shelter, Demon Eyes, Nightmare City, Stronghold, and the three Department 18 books Black Cathedral, Night Souls, and The Eighth Witch, have been published mass market and eBook in the USA. The fourth Department 18 book, A Plague Of Echoes, is for August 2014. A standalone ghost story, Stillwater will be released in March 2015. A new Department 18 book 5, Mother Of Demons is due summer 2015

  Falling Apart At The Edges, a crime thriller, Through The Sad Heart, an action thriller, Let Death Begin, a mystery thriller, are 2014 publications. A Bahamas trilogy, Touching the Sun, Calling Down the Lightning, and a third book, Raging Against The Storm are all 2015 publication.

  They have written a screenplay based on the first two Department 18 books – this screenplay, their first, won the 2013 British Horror Film Festival Award for Best New Screenplay. They have also written scripts based on The Eighth Witch, and some of their ghost stories. They have completed two original, commissioned screenplays, one a mainstream drama currently out for funding.

  Numerous stories have been published in a variety of anthologies and magazines.

  Collections include, Shadows At Midnight, 1979 and 1999 (revised and enlarged), Echoes Of Darkness, 2000, Incantations, 2002, two retrospective collections of their stories, essays and interviews, The Secret Geography Of Nightmare and Selling Dark Miracles, both 2002, Falling Into Heaven in 2004, The Odd Ghosts, 2011, and Flame And Other Enigmatic Tales, and A Haunting Of Ghosts, both 2012.

  Novellas, Moths, The Hidden Language Of Demons, The Seminar, Double Act, and His Other Son have been published in 2001, 2002, 2003, 2007 and 2013 respectively.

  They worked as editors on the fi
rst seven volumes of Darkness Rising, and the two annual Darkness Rising anthologies. As editors/publishers they ran Enigmatic Press in the UK, which produced Enigmatic Tales, and its sister titles. They have written essays. They still do commissioned editing projects.

  Visit the Maynard Sims Author Page at Amazon

  And find us on Facebook, Linkedin, Google +, Wordpress, Tumblr, Pinterest, Soundcloud and Goodreads under Maynard Sims, and Twitter on @micksims as Maynard Sims

  OTHER BOOKS BY THESE AUTHORS

  Maynard Sims / L H Maynard & M P N Sims

  Thriller novels

  Shelter

  Demon Eyes

  Nightmare City

  Stronghold

  Let Death Begin

  Through The Sad Heart

  Falling Apart At The Edges

  Stillwater

  The Bahamas series of novels

  Dark Of The Sun (to be Touching The Sun)

  Calling Down The Lightning

  The Department 18 series of novels

  Black Cathedral