The Grieving Stones

by Gary McMahon

  Alice followed him, with Moira coming up quietly behind. Clive opened a door and stepped into a narrow space, then turned right and vanished. Alice went in after him. She was standing in a very tight hallway that ran parallel to the main room, with a set of rickety-looking wooden stairs at the far end. Clive was already climbing the stairs, the bottom of his legs disappearing into the ceiling. There was a light on up there, the illumination seeming to swallow him.

  “I’m not sure if I like this,” said Moira.

  Oh, shut the fuck up, Alice thought. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” she said.

  The walls were bare, untreated timber, unlike the papered walls in the main room and the bedroom the men would be using. She looked behind her, to see if they’d followed, but only Moira was back there. She could hear them talking beyond the wall; their voices were low, conspiratorial. One of them laughed softly.

  She reached the stairs, glanced upwards, and then started to climb. They were steep, and the handrail was loose, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was a short flight; her head rose into the ceiling space as soon as her foot hit the third or fourth tread.

  “What do you think?” Clive was standing above her, facing the main dormer, which was flanked by a couple of smaller skylight windows that lay flush with the angle of the roof, one on each side.

  She stepped up into the attic room. Like the main room and bedroom, it was filled with a jumble of cast-off goods, like a hoarder’s den. Items had been pushed back against the walls and the bottom edge of the sloping roof to provide some space in the centre, but there was still a lot of stuff in there.

  There were two single beds, one at each end of the large room. Alice earmarked the one furthest from the access hatch and got ready to make a move for it before Moira could state a preference.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said this place needed tidying up, were you?”

  He turned to face her and shook his head. “If anything, I played it down. It’s a tip in here.”

  “Good God…” Moira’s head had appeared above the floor line. “It doesn’t get any better, this place, does it?”

  Alice dropped into a squat and held out her hand; Moira clasped it in one of her own as she clambered the rest of the way up the short flight of stairs. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” she said, and a half-hearted smile fluttered across her face.

  “I’m sure you will,” said Alice, turning to face Clive. “We all will.”

  “How about I leave you two to settle in and we all meet downstairs in half an hour?” Clive made his way to the stairs and started down them. “I’ll break out the booze.” He smiled. Oddly, he kept smiling as his head moved slowly downwards and out of sight.

  “Well,” said Alice.

  Moira was standing near the window, her hands clutched under her chin.

  “Are you okay?”

  She lowered her hands. The light flickered. Moira glanced left and then right. “I don’t like it up here.”

  “You’ll be fine. Sure, it’s a little creepy, but all old houses are creepy. Some new ones, too.” Alice smiled and took a few steps forward, reaching out her hands. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here with you.”

  Moira relaxed. Her shoulders slumped, her posture became less rigid. “I’m just being silly.”

  Alice didn’t deny the statement. She just smiled and squeezed Moira’s hand in both of hers, then let go and slid past her, making her way to the bed she’d already chosen as her own. She lifted her bag and let it drop onto the firm mattress. “We’ll sleep fine in here.” She turned and something caught her eye. At first she thought it was a stunted figure, standing silently in the corner and watching them, but when she focused on it she realised that it was not a figure at all.

  “What is it?” Moira took a couple of steps towards Alice, as if seeking comfort from proximity.

  “I have no idea.” She walked over to the corner, moved aside a couple of large sealed cardboard boxes, and inspected the thing. “Ah… I think I know what this is. I’ve seen one before, on television.”

  “And?”

  She smiled. “I think they call them punch dummies. Martial artists use them for training. You know…they hit them.” She made a fist and threw a weak punch at the dummy’s torso. It wobbled on its stand. “Yes, it’s a punch dummy.” She stared at the dummy. It had no face, just a crude featureless head atop a sturdy torso, which ended in a wide stand. At the bottom of the stand, almost obscured by a lot of stuff she couldn’t be bothered to move, was a broad, heavy base that stopped the dummy from falling over on impact.

  “What on earth is it doing here?” Moira sounded better; more confident, less afraid.

  “You could say that about most of the stuff that’s littered around. What’s any of it doing here? I mean, what kind of crap has been left here over the years? This house is a dumping ground.” She slapped the dummy across the face and backed away, watching it nod gently on its base in silent agreement. “Whoever owns this house doesn’t deserve it. They should treat such an old building with more respect.”

  Moira didn’t respond. She had turned away and was unpacking her bag on the other bed.

  Alice finished emptying her own bag and stored her belongings neatly, in the top drawer of an old dresser by the side of the bed. To make room, she had to remove a dusty stack of blank A4 printing paper, two old biscuit tins, and the shell of a mobile phone so huge and unwieldy that it must have been from the early 1990s.

  When she was done, she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. For a second, she thought the punch dummy was still nodding slightly, but then she realised that it was a trick of the light. It couldn’t have been moving this long after she’d hit it. That was stupid. She stared at its blank face, convinced that it was looking at her despite the fact that it did not possess any eyes.

  “Do you think this was a good idea?”

  She dragged her attention away from the dummy and looked over at Moira, who was sitting on the edge of her bed, flexing her nylon-stocking-clad feet a few inches off the wooden floor. “I mean coming here… was it a good idea? It feels… different away from the rest of the group. I’m not sure if I’m going to like it.”

  Moaning again. She was always complaining, this one, seeking attention or affirmation that her grief was just as valid as that of everyone else. She was weak, a brittle shell behind which lay nothing of any consequence.

  “I’m sure we’ve all done the right thing. We might get some benefit from being away from our usual routines. I’m no expert, but I’m sure Clive has some interesting therapy work in mind. From what I’ve heard, he often runs courses like this, and swears by the results he gets.” She paused, glanced at the motionless dummy, and then back again at Moira.

  “It probably helps to think of yourself as special, or at least privileged. Not everyone is invited to these things. He must see something in you – in all of us – that he thinks might respond to what we’re going to do here.” She smiled, but it felt like a mask.

  Moira smiled back, but hers was genuine – at least it looked that way. It was such an open smile, so desperate and pleading.

  Needy. That was the word that came to mind.

  But what is it that you need? Alice wondered. Whatever it is, it’s all you have; that need. There’s nothing beyond it.

  She was ashamed of her thoughts, but that didn’t make them any less insightful. Being here, in this old and neglected house, seemed to be opening her mind in a way that she had not experienced for decades It was like being a child again, set free from the chains of adult thinking. She could look at someone and see right through the façade, pick out the parts of them that were usually hidden behind a lifetime of learned mannerisms and reactions. She felt elevated, as if her mind were able to lift free of her body and take a peek into all the dark corners of the human psyche.

  “I think you and I are going to become real friends,” said Moira, smiling coyly. She was almost flirting.

  Do you,
now? thought Alice. “I’m sure,” she said. Not if I can fucking help it.

  PART TWO

  SETTLING IN

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They didn’t do much that afternoon. It was already late and they were feeling lazy and unmotivated after the drive. Alice decided to go for a walk while the others rested up, unpacked their belongings, or chatted in the cluttered living area. She knew that she was being slightly anti-social, but she didn’t care. Besides, a short hike might help shift the lethargy that was clinging like a strange fungus to her bones.

  She left the house and walked behind it, heading for the low perimeter fence. The sky was taking on a dark tint; the sun had weakened as the day progressed. She climbed over a tilted wooden stile and paused to look up at the hill. The house was situated approximately half way up this second rise, and she estimated that it would take her less than ten minutes to walk the rest of the way to the top.

  “Hang on!”

  She tensed, her shoulders stiffening.

  “Alice…wait up.”

  She didn’t turn around, just waited for Clive to catch up with her. She felt like running but she knew that would be rude. He meant well, this man. He probably even thought that the attention was helping her.

  “I hope you don’t mind some company?” He smiled at her.

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  “I left the others back there, messing around and trying to sort out some food and stuff from the van to cook dinner for us all. I thought you might like me to show you around… give you the tour, as it were.”

  “If you like.” She started walking again, not entirely indifferent to his soulful gaze and his charmingly floppy fringe. He had deep brown eyes. They were his best feature, even boxed in by the lenses of his glasses.

  “This hill,” he said, drawing level with her. “It’s well known in the area for being a spiritual place. The standing stones are just over the top of the hill, and over the years a lot of people claim to have experienced things up here.”

  “What kind of things?” She slowed down, interested.

  “Ghostly sightings. Weird lights in the sky. That kind of thing.”

  “And do you believe it? ‘That kind of thing’?” Echoing his language made her feel uncomfortable, as if they were forming a bond.

  He shrugged. “In all honesty, I don’t know. I try to keep an open mind, but sometimes it’s difficult. I think a lot of people are certain that this place has some kind of power, but belief and reality are often different things.”

  They were almost at the top of the hill now. The sky seemed lower; the ground underfoot was hard and uneven, despite the recent rain. Alice stopped and turned around, looking back at the house. Even at this short distance, the house looked strange, not-quite-real, like a replica of a human dwelling. She wasn’t sure why it seemed this way to her, but there was something fake about the sight. Far away and below them, the surface of Ullswater glimmered between trees like some vast half-buried jewel.

  “Would you like to see the stones? The Grieving Stones?”

  “Why not,” she said, turning and resuming the climb. “It might be interesting.”

  She stumbled, losing her footing for a moment as she walked over the entrance to a burrow or an indentation in the hillside. Clive reached out and grabbed her hand. She regained her balance and kept on walking. Clive didn’t let go of her hand until she pulled away, pretending that she had dirt on her coat and using the hand to brush it away. She gave him a sideways glance, but he was staring straight ahead, towards the summit. He didn’t give much away. She couldn’t tell if this was all just part of his therapy or if he really was attracted to her. Her own feelings were even more confusing. There was a physical attraction, yes; she couldn’t deny it, no matter how hard she tried. Yet she didn’t really like him. Clive wasn’t her type: he was much too liberal and what her mother would have called ‘arty-farty’. She usually liked overtly ‘manly’ types, the kind of men who played a lot of sport and would try to dominate her.

  Clive didn’t have it in him to dominate anyone.

  When they reached the top of the hill she felt as if the earth were falling away from her; she almost pitched forward and started tumbling down the other side. It was a momentary experience, but one that left its mark. About a hundred yards further down the slope, five tall, oblong-shaped stones stood huddled in a small flat clearing. Beyond the stones, the slope became steeper and in the distance she could see a village nestled in the landscape. She didn’t want to think of it as hiding, but that was the thought which came to her.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? It always takes my breath away.”

  “It is pretty, yes. The quality of the light here is quite magical, too.” She looked across the moors, watching the play of shadow as the sun made its inevitable way across the sky. The earth itself seemed to twitch and writhe as the patches of shadow shifted, passing over rocks and shrubs and small hushed gatherings of trees.

  “Come on. Let’s take a closer look.” Clive led her down towards the stones, and she followed without even thinking about it.

  When she reached the stones, Clive was standing with his palm held against one of them – the tallest and widest of the group. “If there is some kind of energy here, I think it comes from these stones. They seem to vibrate. Just a tiny movement, but it’s there.” His face was slack, the muscles loose. He looked like he might fall asleep at any moment. When he closed his eyes Alice once again felt a vague connection between them. It wasn’t something that originated in the depth of her emotions, but a feeling that came from outside, an external force – perhaps triggered by the presence of these ancient megaliths.

  “I like it here,” said Clive, opening his eyes and smiling at her. “It’s peaceful.” He took his hand away from the stone, allowing it to hover in the air for a couple of seconds before letting it fall to his side. It was a strange gesture, as if he was reluctant to break the contact.

  “Why did you really invite me here?” She hadn’t known she was going to ask the question until she spoke.

  “Why?” he looked puzzled. “For therapy. Like everyone else, I thought you might benefit from this weekend.”

  “But I rarely join in with the group discussions. I just sit there and listen, not contributing. What makes you think I’ll get anything out of this trip?”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “It’s just a gut feeling. Call it instinct. I’ve been doing this long enough to think I’m a decent judge of character, and something about you makes me feel that this is exactly what you need. The group – the main group – isn’t for you. I realise that; it’s pretty obvious. But this…” He lifted both arms into the air and opened his hands wide. “All this beauty and tranquillity… I think it might help you open up a bit.”

  She shook her head. “You have more faith in me than I have in myself.”

  “But that’s what I do,” he said. “I have faith in people, even when they have none left in themselves. It’s an important part of counselling.” He left the impression that there was more to be said on the subject, but this wasn’t the time to talk about it. “Anyway, who the hell wouldn’t respond to all this? You’d have to be crazy not to.”

  She laughed. “Crazy. Isn’t that a word you should be careful of using in your profession?”

  “We’re all crazy.” His smile fell away. “Every single one of us is crazy in some small way. Accepting that is the key to any kind of self-improvement. We must each embrace our own madness.” The way he said that final line made it sound as if he were quoting it from a textbook. She suspected it was something he’d used before, perhaps even part of his repertoire.

  She walked around the stones, inspecting them, examining their weathered surfaces. They looked as if at some point they’d been smooth, but standing here for so long had worn them down and created pits and furrows in their surface. “So what’s the story?”

  Clive stood next to her, watching. She
felt his gaze, a burst of warmth against her skin. “I’m not quite sure, to be honest. I know there’s a local legend – something about witches – but I don’t know all the details.”

  “Is that why people think they’ve seen things here – because of the legend?”

  He nodded. “I guess so. People have a need to pin meaning to things. We’re all searching for stories, linear plots to make sense of the world. In reality, nothing makes sense. It’s all just chaos. But it makes us feel better to think of ghosts and wraiths and the spirits of the dead being tethered to places like this. We have a deep-seated desire to cling to this stuff.”

  “This stuff?” She took a step away from him and looked out over the moor. “You mean the people we’ve lost? The ones who have died…”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Maybe we can’t let them go, even those we didn’t like. Perhaps it’s the dead who cling to us and not the other way around. What if we want to let go but the dead won’t allow it?” She turned towards him, trying to smile but not quite getting there. “I’m sorry. Just ignore me.”

  “No.” He made a move to step closer but then thought better of it. “This is what I wanted you to do. Open up. Tell me your story.”

  “It isn’t that interesting.”

  “I bet it is.” That disarming smile. As she kept noticing, he was indeed a handsome man, but not in a conventional way. His eyes were too wide, his nose too long, and his unkempt hair made him seem scruffy, as if he’d spent a few nights out on the streets.

  “There are things… things I’ve not told anyone.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “My husband used to hit me.” The words shocked her because they came out so easily. She’d never told anyone about this in, so it should have been difficult to admit, but it wasn’t. It was all so simple; the admission felt so natural, to unburden herself in this way, in this place – to this man.

  “Go on.” He was still smiling. The expression had not dropped, even under the weight of her revelation.