The Dark Corners Box Set

by Robert Scott-Norton

  Judy nodded slowly. She smiled weakly and Seth couldn’t work out whether she genuinely wanted to see the artefacts or whether she was humouring him.

  “Take care,” he said, closing the door. And as she drove off, Seth couldn’t help but look up at Lamont’s house—his house—and wonder whether the collection was aware he was so close. A throbbing started behind his ears. Dull but growing in intensity. Becoming almost painful like the pressure build-up when you couldn’t pop your ears on a flight.

  What mess was he landing his friends in now? If Adam Cowl was alive, was he really going to leave him or his friends alone?

  17

  After dropping Seth at the vicarage, Judy drove back to her house as fast as she could, not caring about the speed cameras that she passed—they rarely flashed and most locals assumed they were fake anyway.

  Once inside, she shut the door behind her and listened to the sounds of her home, her safe space. It had taken a lot to go back out into the world after Phil died. Before Phil, she’d had a lot of friends. She’d gain them without trying, getting on with anyone and priding herself on doing so. She’d be the one that people would wait for at parties. It had all been so easy.

  Then, little by little, Phil changed it all.

  After his death, she had to fight to change it back again and whilst nowhere close to the confident person she once was, she was getting closer—she could recognise the woman in the mirror again as someone she’d like to spend time with.

  The visit to Joceline’s home had shaken her. The paintings had been graphic, but she could cope with nudity and eroticism. It was the story behind the paintings that had upset her. Joceline was not who she purported to be.

  And there was a feeling like jet lag; she was moving but her body was out of kilter with the world, or the world was out of kilter with her. She needed something to ground her. She glared at the hands on her watch, urging them to speed up. There was still half an hour before Jemma got home from school.

  Every house had its noises, a living heartbeat that was instantly recognisable to everyone who lived there. More than sound, it was the atmosphere, the essence. The sights, the smells, the amount of dust in the air, the groans from the central heating pipes. Everything that made a house a home. And there was something not right about hers now.

  She put down the painting that Joceline had given her, and she went hunting.

  First, she went through all the rooms for signs of doors that shouldn’t be there. But the rooms were clear, no new doors. Nothing that shouldn’t be there. Paranoid that she’d missed something, she checked all the rooms again, looking for—she wasn’t sure what. Something out of place, something to show that a stranger had been in the house.

  She’d gone with Seth because she cared for him. After such an intense experience had slammed them together, she thought there would always be a part of him imprinted on her. The hospital had changed her. Before going there, she’d always considered herself normal. The idea that the paranormal was a real thing, amused her but didn’t concern her. It was a question that didn’t need answering. Why would it? Her world wasn’t about to get turned upside down.

  Except now it had. The doors to the Almost Realm had been introduced to her at Ravenmeols by Seth. Although, thinking back, she couldn’t remember whether he’d pointed them out to her or whether she’d already been able to see them on the walls. That was the trouble with them, they were inconsequential. Forgettable. You wouldn’t know they were there at all unless you kept a close eye on the doors you knew were real. Counting doors, keeping track of the ones in her life, as stupid as it sounded, gave her a means to monitor them. They had a way of hiding in plain sight, of obscuring your sense of reality. Always at the edges of your vision because bringing them into focus was difficult. The Almost doors did not like to be watched.

  She checked her mobile for messages. Jemma should have been home by now.

  Where are you? she texted and waited for a reply.

  Nothing.

  Annoying as it was to not get an instant response from her daughter, it was hardly a rare occurrence. She’d try again in a minute and even then, she was trying to resist the urge to write snappier text messages demanding attention. That was a sure way to drive an even bigger wedge between them.

  She passed the gifted picture again on her way through the hall and picked it up. Watercolours had never been her thing, preferring her paintings to be vibrant and full of energy. She didn’t have much artwork around the house but thought this would look nice in the kitchen, the white frame would stand out well against her muted slate grey walls. She took down the clock beside the breakfast bar, and put Joceline’s painting up, just to see what it would look like.

  Hmm. Perhaps.

  It was nice enough, but it unsettled her knowing where it came from. Kain Scardovi’s paintings were bizarre, but it was more the connection with the Adherents that set her on edge.

  No, she wouldn’t keep the painting. A charity shop might appreciate it.

  But as she moved to take it down, the painting slipped off its hook and hit the floor. The glass smashed, sending tiny slivers skimming across the tiled floor.

  “Perfect,” she said out loud. “Absolutely, bloody perfect.”

  She grabbed the dustpan and brush then picked up the painting. The frame had cracked on impact, the entire glass front had smashed. Inside the frame, Joceline’s painting slipped and tipped forward. There was something behind it.

  “What are you?”

  It was a piece of canvas, roughly torn from a larger sheet. The colours were dark greys and blacks, and even as she tried to stop herself, she found it impossible to not pick it up. It looked very much like it belonged in one of those paintings Kain had created.

  “Argh!” She dropped the canvas. How could that have felt so hot? Jesus wept; she rushed her hand to the tap. Had it been placed in there as some kind of trap? Had Joceline doused it with something toxic?

  Turning the kitchen tap on, she slipped her hand under the water and recoiled as if slapped. How could that be? The colour had washed off the canvas and was now on her hand. A trick of the light made the water look like the paint was flowing on her skin. But that couldn’t be. The paint must have been dry on the canvas; it wasn’t just going to wash off on her.

  The pain subsided, and Judy went to check the canvas again, eager to examine it to see if it could give any clues as to what had happened. The canvas was blank. It was as if nothing had ever been there.

  Judy grabbed a towel and started wiping her hands, desperate to get the paint off her skin. It felt wrong, uncomfortable, and warm. The paint moved some more as she touched it with the towel. But it looked dry on her skin, almost like a tattoo. She scrubbed with the towel, but the paint continued to flow above the wrist, inching around the back of her arm until it became difficult to see. What was happening? Was this some weird dream?

  Seth would know what to do.

  Judy ran for her bag and pulled out her mobile, unlocking it and opening the contacts app. There he was, starred for quick contact.

  But her finger hesitated over the button. And a thought burnt through her mind.

  Wait, it said.

  18

  Seth remained unsettled. Meeting Joceline Scardovi had not gone as expected. He’d hoped to get clearer answers about the painting and who might have taken it. The answer still eluded him but the likely prospect was that the Adherents of the Fourth were behind it and that left a bitterness in his mouth.

  Joceline was also not how he’d imagined. There’d been that initial hostility that Seth had initially believed was because of her reclusive lifestyle but what if there was more to it? Her attitude had shifted during their visit. At times antagonistic, then reflective, then almost fearful that Seth had Judy had stumbled into something they had no business being involved in.

  And the visit had made him reconsider how he’d treated Judy. She’d been right to be angry at him on the car ride home and he realised how
little he knew of her, assuming that she’d just drop what she was doing to come along on a trip with him into potential danger. She had a daughter and Seth had disregarded that because that responsibility didn’t fit in with his own immediate plans. He vowed to make it up to her. Tomorrow, he’d call and apologise.

  To take his mind off things, he busied himself in his uncle’s office. The room needed a thorough clear out but he didn’t feel like he had the energy for that just yet, instead he settled on sorting and tidying.

  He began at one end, trying to get a handle on the room’s contents. There had to be more notes in here that would help him understand the basement. Bookcases lined two walls of the study and they were crammed with books covering every aspect of the paranormal and the occult. Many were old with cracked spines and appeared to be the cheap mass-produced crap that publishers pushed out to entice the casual hobbyist. The good stuff he found amongst the bottom shelves, heavy hardback books, written across several languages and all were far older than Seth. Layers of dust had built up but as Seth ran his fingers along the edges, he’d spot ones that had had more use than others. And in these heavier tomes, there were ink markings and scraps of notes in his uncle’s handwriting.

  After a couple of hours, he’d got a better sense of what the room contained and had shifted a lot of dust into the air. In a corner of the room, hidden under an old tablecloth and a stack of videocassettes, Seth found his uncle’s safe. The thing must have weighed a tonne and seemed fastened to the wall. Even if it wasn’t, he guessed it would take more than one person to get that thing out of here. A label declared this to be manufactured by Chubb and it took a key rather than a combination to open. Where would he find the key? Chesterton perhaps? He checked his watch. Quarter to eight, the office would be closed. He’d try him in the morning if he didn’t stumble across it in the meantime.

  He was interrupted in his tidying by the doorbell. It was Malc.

  “Were you going to tell me you’d inherited a house? You promised you wouldn’t take this on.”

  “I didn’t have much choice. My uncle left me his collection on the proviso I take possession of his house as well. I’ll be moving out of the vicarage.”

  Malc looked heavenward. “You’re doing what?”

  “It was part of the deal. He wants the collection to stay in the basement. He doesn’t trust anyone else to look after it.”

  “What about this Plan B? I thought that was what we were going with?”

  “We? There’s no we here. This is my life.”

  “You asked me for advice.”

  “And you gave it and I’m grateful. But I thought the right thing to do was what my uncle wanted.”

  “And this has nothing to do with you inheriting a house?”

  Seth cocked his head. “What’s that meant to mean?”

  “Look at you, Seth. You’re broke. Of course, you’re going to take the house. You’d be stupid not to. But don’t insult me by pretending that your decision making is altruistic. You need somewhere to live and it’s been handed to you just when you needed it.”

  Seth hadn’t seen Malc this pissed off for years. He sometimes thought that being so close to God made you immune to the emotions that most people experienced. Like God was a force field that protected you from all the shitty feelings that were thrown at you all day long.

  “Thanks for the support. I’ve had a pretty crap day, so if that’s all you’ve got, I’ll see you tomorrow when I come and get my things.”

  Malc side-stepped him and entered the house. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The collection.”

  Seth glanced at the floor. “It’s down there. There’s some weird shit down there. Maybe you could help me sort through it.”

  Malc folded his arms in front of his chest, his brows drew together. “You’re out of your league. You need to let his solicitor find a new home for it. You don’t appreciate the responsibility involved.”

  “I can handle it. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “You’re always so sensitive. You’ve been through a lot. Too much. Just think about what's happened to you in the space of a week. Do you honestly believe you’re in a fit state to take on something as serious as this?”

  Seth hesitated. “I don’t have a choice.”

  He led the way to the kitchen where he made them both a coffee and he told his friend about the visit to the artist’s house. All the time they were drinking, Seth noticed the glances from Malc to the basement door. Malc had often displayed some indications he was sensitive to the paranormal, and with such a concentration beneath his feet it would be impossible for him to ignore.

  Seth told Malc about the missing painting from Lamont’s basement, and how he’d tracked down the artist with Judy. Malc raised an eyebrow. “And this painting is important…”

  Seth took out his phone and showed him a picture. Malc took the handset and blew out his cheeks. “They look uncannily like hitchers.”

  “Shadowmen at any rate,” Seth agreed. “Now can you see why it was necessary to check out the artist?”

  But Malc shook his head. “If anything, this is even more reason why you should have kept your distance. Do you think the artist was an Adherent? What did this widow say?”

  “I didn’t exactly come out and ask her directly, but she was pretty disturbing,” Seth said.

  “After everything you’ve told me, I can’t see any reason for you to stay entangled in this.”

  Not the response Seth was expecting.

  Malc continued, “On the one hand, you’ve got the police investigating the murder of your uncle, and on the other, you’ve the Vigilance Society itching to get involved. I take it they were Plan B?”

  “Yes,” Seth confirmed. “What are you thinking?”

  “You should try to work with them. You don’t want to be working against them.”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “The church has often found itself butting heads with them. They can be tenacious.”

  The conversation was interrupted by Seth’s mobile ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Seth Loomis?”

  There was something official in the caller’s tone that made Seth shift uncomfortably. Malc looked up from his drink.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “This is Detective Goulden. We spoke earlier this week. I’d like to have a chat with you at the station.”

  19

  Joceline Scardovi was dead.

  The police had received a tip-off and discovered her hanging from the light fitting in the hallway. They found Seth’s card on her kitchen table and despite not revealing anything about the tip-off, they seemed rather interested in her having Seth’s contact details. They’d asked him when he’d seen her and he had to reveal that he’d visited with Judy, and loathe as he was to involve her in this, he got the feeling that if he didn’t bring in a witness to her being alive when they left, Seth wouldn’t have been free to leave the station after speaking to the police.

  It was early morning when he got home. He’d dropped by the vicarage and picked up some things, sneaking them out of the house whilst the place was empty. The drizzle was relentless and threatened another day of confused weather. From the boot of his car, he hauled out a large battered suitcase and a smaller sports bag. This was most of what he’d been living with at the vicarage. His whole life in two bags. What a success he’d made of himself.

  As he approached his uncle’s house, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the basement windows. Bricked up they may be, but the artefacts could still reach out. He felt the vibrations now. He had the curious notion that the artefacts were mocking him.

  Seth left his suitcase in the hall and took his sports bag into the kitchen. He sat on a stool and glared at the basement door. Closed and bolted. On the draining board, washed cups from yesterday’s chat with Malc.

  His priority was in tracking down the painting and the Adherents. If they
were moving more openly, that suggested they were working to a plan and were confident in that plan. Seth would not let them continue unchecked.

  He hauled his sports bag onto the kitchen table, unzipped it then tipped out the contents. Papers and notebooks spilled out, quickly covering the surface. Several pieces spilled over the edge and Seth retrieved those, setting them back on top. Seth had been keeping his own notes into investigations ever since he’d started his consulting services. Few readings warranted research, but he'd been contracted to investigate unusual activities, stuff that his punters considered paranormal. There had been other cases though, private consultations which he had needed to scrutinise carefully and record observations. The Ravenmeols gig had come too quickly for him to do much in the way of inquiry but he’d spent what time he could over the last week investigating the hospital and the people that worked there. The Adherents were excellent at hiding, but he already had a staff list and was methodically working through it, trying to establish which of them might have been involved in Adam Cowl’s cult.

  It was tedious work. But, if he could track down the surviving Adherents, he’d have a list of subjects he could pass to the police.

  From the pile, he found what he’d been looking for—a thick A5 notebook with a fake leather backing, new but already scuffed.

  He flipped over the cover and on the first page was the portrait of the man who’d almost killed him at the hospital. Adam Cowl. This was a printout from a Wikipedia page, its original source unknown. For all he knew, a fake. Maybe the Adherents had done all they could to seed false information about their spiritual leader. But in light of nothing better, this would have to do.

  The photograph had been taken in 1916, two years before Adam had been murdered. His face was angular, a thick goatee beard covered the chin and thin lips. Dark hair had been greased and parted neatly with a comb, although it was fractionally too long at the back to be considered gentlemanly for the time. Adam wore a dress shirt and a suit that fitted tight across his broad shoulders. A bow tie, draped around his neck, hung limply. It was the type of shot taken after late-night drinking at a party. He expected a man like Adam would not have enjoyed having his photograph taken. A man like this worked from the shadows, never putting themselves on the front line.