Hauntings

by Ian Whates (ed)

  He found that he was stringing the work out. During the day, when both Felix and his belief in Felix waned, he did little. He sat at the keyboard listlessly, feeling oddly alone and bereft. Without his spectral taskmaster he found it difficult to motivate himself. Instead, he mooched around the house, picking over the grave goods of the rooms he had not much been into, reading Bechter’s books, going through his cupboards and drawers.

  That was where he found the collar. On seeing it, that red plastic loop with its circular metal tag, he felt a surge of triumph. Here, at last, was some relic of Felix that Mrs Bechter had not excised. Perhaps he would even keep it as a souvenir of a peculiar but not unpleasant week. At dinner parties maybe he would trot out the anecdote, and brandish this forlorn little collar as proof that yes, there had been a cat named...

  The stamped name on the tag was “Mr Buffles.”

  Stewart frowned at it and then shrugged inwardly. Obviously he had gone back further into the Bechter family history than he had realised. The relic he had excavated had come from a former age, when cats were given decidedly dafter names.

  Towards evening, feeling the pull of the work just begin to get its hooks into him, he called Mrs Bechter again.

  “I found some things belonging to your previous cat, by the way.” He had reported on the book, but he still felt fiercely partisan in the case of Felix vs Mrs Bechter, and now he had discovered that she had presumably been persecuting whole generations of unfortunate cats, of which poor deceased Felix was only the capstone.

  Mrs Bechter sounded surprised. “We never had a previous cat, Dr Tyrell. What do you mean?”

  “Well who’s Mr Buffles then?” he asked her, in the manner of the great detective unveiling the murderer.

  “Mr Buffles is my cat,” came the voice over the phone, honestly bewildered. “You must have seen him in the photo, in the kitchen.”

  Stewart was in the kitchen right then, and he locked eyes with the despairing-looking feline in the photo. That animal gaze had an urgency to it, a message for him.

  “But if you’ve found anything belonging to Mr Buffles I’ll come and pick it up tomorrow, or the next day,” Mrs Bechter was saying. “Yes I will, Mr Buffles.” And there in the background, distant as the echo from a tomb, a faint mew.

  “But I thought... you didn’t like cats...”

  “I love cats, Dr Tyrrel. I’m a cat person. George, though, he never did get on with Mr Buffles –”

  He moved the phone away from his ear, staring, hearing something move, soft-footed and yet so large, in the house above him. But she said it was Felix in the photo, he told himself. There was only one cat, though, and it was not sharing a frame with George Bechter. Instead, he was the academic alone with his pipe, one proprietary, fond hand upon the fish tank. The fish tank?

  It was in the study, dry and drained, and he had assumed that the fish had been taken by Mrs Bechter, or flushed down the loo for all he knew, and thought no more about it. Looking at it now, partially occluded in the corner of the photo, it did not look much like an aquarium. There was no sense of water, no refraction of light over the sandy and stones that lined the bottom, but there was something there, some patch of darkness...

  He dashed upstairs and bolted into the study, looking at the tank anew. No backing paper of water weeds, no pump, just a glass box lined with dirt, with a heater.

  Not an aquarium: a vivarium.

  In the room, Felix moved restlessly. It was past time for Stewart to get to work. Whatever shared the study with him – the thing that monopolised the shadows, half-glimpsed between stacks as it stirred from its slumber – would not fit in that tank, not any more. He had fed it too well, with his industry and his attention and his belief.

  He sat at the desk, with that bulking presence at his back, feeling the keen point of Felix’s attention as his hands hovered over the keyboard, ready to resume. Instead, he brought up a search engine. Named after the saint, she had said. His fingers shook slightly as he typed.

  Saint Felix of Nola, was the prompt result. There was a picture of the man’s defining moment, hiding in a hole whilst a renaissance-looking bruiser stalked past, saved from the hunters only by the intervention of one of God’s smallest creatures. The soldiers had, the story went, seen the web built across the mouth of the holy man’s retreat, and thought it long-abandoned.

  Only then did he turn around and see Felix plainly. For a long moment he stared into the expectant, clinical gaze of those round and plate-sized eyes.

  Then he hunched back stiffly towards the screen and brought up the bibliography again, because that was his task, and for that, and no other reason, was he tolerated in this house. As the hours stretched towards midnight, he paginated and corrected errors and hunted a few last references through Bechter’s landscape of books with trembling hands. And all the while the vast, many-legged shadow of Felix was squatting, where the wall and ceiling joined, waiting for him to finish.

  Fog on the Old Coast Road

  Mark West

  From where he was in the traffic jam, Tom Barratt couldn’t see what was causing the hold up, though there were some flashing lights visible through the mist ahead. He assumed they were from the paramedic Volvo which had cautiously threaded its way through the gridlock half an hour ago.

  “Why aren’t we moving, Dad?”

  Tom glanced at Jack, his six-year-old son, sitting in the passenger seat. The boy had been remarkably patient, considering it had taken them almost an hour to drive down Lumley Road from the Skegness seafront to Roman Bank. Having forgotten his Nintendo DS, they’d spent the time recounting their great day out at the seaside – the funfair, eating fish and chips sitting on the pier, the donkey rides and the land train, football in the sand and too long in an amusement arcade – and that had kept both their spirits up. It didn’t help, though, that the weather was getting worse. A generally overcast day, a sea-mist had rolled in around lunchtime and was slowly turning into a heavy fog.

  “I think it’s an accident, mate.”

  Jack braced himself on the arms of his booster seat, lifting up enough that he could see clearly. “Someone’s in trouble.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Do you think we’ll be able to move soon? How are we going to get Mum?” There was an element of panic creeping into Jack’s voice, the worry that they wouldn’t get to Boston in time to pick up Clare, his Mum and Tom’s wife.

  “If we can’t get by on the A52, we’ll find another way.”

  “But what if we’re not on time?”

  “Then I’ll phone her. Seriously, we’ve got plenty of time; she’ll still be eating and chatting with her mates.” Tom looked at the dashboard clock. They had a little over ninety minutes before they were due to pick Clare up from the Ghost Pearl restaurant in Boston - plenty of time, assuming they moved within the next thirty minutes.

  “But you’re driving.”

  Tom smiled and pulled his phone from his pocket, dropping it into the cup holder on Jack’s seat. “There you go, you’re in charge of the phone, okay? If we need to ring Mum, it’s there.” Jack picked up the phone, a smile on his face. “We don’t need to ring her now, just if we run out of time.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Jack, an exaggerated frown on his face, though he put the phone back.

  Tom laughed and, within a few seconds, Jack joined him. Tom patted his son’s knee as the car in front moved forward a few feet.

  “We’re moving.”

  Tom reached through the gap between the seats, grasping for the road map. His fingertips caught one edge and he started to pull.

  “We’re moving again, Dad!”

  “Okay mate,” said Tom, walking his fingertips along the spiral binding. He got a good grip and pulled. “I really need to get Sat-Nav, you know.”

  “Move forward, Dad, come on.”

  Tom edged the car forward – and from the corner of his eye saw Jack nod his appreciation – and thought, from the position of the lights, that the incid
ent must be on the Wainfleet Road, which they needed to take. He checked the map and saw the thin ribbon of a coast road, probably long-since usurped by the A52, that appeared to run alongside the marshes. That was the way to go.

  A bus which had been blocking the junction moved, and a few moments later the car in front did too. It had a big nodding dog on the parcel shelf and the sudden movement jerked it into life.

  Jack raised his hand, as if to wave at the dog, then smiled at Tom. “The dog’s going.”

  Tom smiled. “So are we, mate.” He kept up with the car in front, pulled into the traffic and followed the flow as a policeman directed them away from the accident – the paramedic’s Volvo blocking his view of anything nasty – and past the bus station.

  The traffic moved steadily as cars ahead peeled off into various side-roads and Tom checked the dashboard clock again – still plenty of time. The fog had thickened slightly and whilst visibility at ground level wasn’t bad, the tops of the trees and lamp posts were all but gone into the mist.

  Jack was quiet, watching the road, his left thumb in his mouth, a sure sign that he was relaxed. Tom took the first left and dog-legged his way through various residential streets. “There’s the beach!” said Jack eagerly. His thumb glistened in the glow from the street lights. The sea was obscured by the fog.

  “We’re on our way, Jack, we wanted the coast road and we’ve found it.”

  “You’re very clever,” said Jack with a grin and he patted Tom’s leg, then sat back in his chair and began to suck his thumb again.

  The road was wide, with big detached houses on the right and the beach to the left. A couple of cars passed them, coming the other way, but their own lane was empty. Street lights, visible only as small white glows in the fog, stopped once the houses did.

  They passed through a tiny hamlet, with just a dozen or so houses, each of them boarded-up. Someone had painted graffiti on one, a round face with dots for eyes, a wide mouth with three rows of sharp teeth and horns. It was stupid, a childish attempt at the devil, but it unsettled Tom for some reason. A dog nosed through a pile of rubbish in front of some upturned dustbins and looked up as they drove by. It was thin to the point of emaciation.

  After the abandoned hamlet, the fog lifted enough that Tom could see patches of blue sky between gaps in the murk.

  “The fog’s lifting,” he said and checked the rear-view mirror. “I think it’s coming after us though.”

  “What, chasing us?” Jack twisted around in his seat and Tom laughed.

  “No, it’s coming down the coast but we’ve got in front of it. Fog’s like rain, it can’t hurt you.”

  “Charlie got hit by a bit of ice when it rained once, he said it really hurt.”

  “I think that was probably hail.”

  “No, it was ice.”

  They drove in silence for a few minutes. Fields became visible on the right, some of them planted with crops, most populated by small groups of cattle and sheep.

  On the nearside, probably half a mile ahead, a dark shape appeared in the mist. As they got closer, Tom could see it had once been a petrol station but was now long since abandoned. The pumps had been removed and some attempts had been made to drill out the concrete islands, though small chunks survived here and there. The canopy was sagging, the corrugated metal punctured with holes. The shop was still intact, though the windows were boarded up and covered with graffiti. The sign was missing and Tom wondered what the price of a litre had been when they threw in the towel.

  They passed a sign for ‘Kingston-Next-The-Sea’ and, straight after it, was a pub with three cars parked on the tarmac apron in front. A mini adventure playground was visible in the back garden.

  A sign – “30 miles per hour - Slow Down!” – flashed and Tom obeyed as they drove through the town. Kingston was little more than a high street, lined to the right with shops built into the ground floor of three storey buildings. A park and a civic-looking building went by on the left. A few people were walking in the light mist and several cars were parked in marked bays.

  After the high street ended, they passed a football ground and Jack turned in his chair.

  “Dad? I need a wee.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “Hey, no need to say sorry mate, that’s fine.”

  Jack nodded and put his hands in his groin, a sure sign that holding on wasn’t going to be an option for long.

  A sign revealed itself through the mist, showing a bucket & spade and WC. “There we go,” said Tom. He indicated and turned left into a narrow lane, bordered on either side by high hedges. The road dropped slightly into a wide, circular, gravelled car park. There was one other car, a yellow mini Metro, parked in the space furthest from the entrance. The pay and display machine sat in front of a small, squat toilet block and Tom parked next to it. As soon as he’d turned the engine off, Jack was sliding out of his seat and pushing open the passenger door. He’d raced around the front of the car before Tom caught up with him.

  After they’d both been to the toilet they stood against the railings that separated the car park from the beach. The tide was out and there were a couple of hundred yards before the sea began. Mist hung above it, slightly further out and the sun was barely visible as a pale disk. Southwards, to his right, Tom saw that the beach petered away into grassy marshland but it stretched to the north as far as Tom could see. There appeared to be no one else on the beach.

  He checked his watch - they still had forty minutes to get to Boston. “Did you want to have one last go on the beach?”

  “Really? Can we?”

  Jack ran onto the sand and Tom got the football out of the boot, before following him. Old wooden groynes, marooned now, stood guard on the damp sand. A concrete structure, presumably to hide some kind of outlet pipe, acted as a divider between the beach and the start of marsh.

  “Jack!” Tom yelled and kicked the ball as hard as he could. It sailed up into the air, caught a gust of wind and curled away to the right. Jack, standing still with his head tipped back, watched it go over him and, with a delighted shout, ran after it. The ball bounced a few times until the wet sand deadened the momentum and it rolled gently against one of the groyne posts.

  Jack raced for the ball and, when he reached it, tried to kick it back. It didn’t go far. Tom started down the beach towards him, as Jack kicked the ball again. It moved a little further this time, onto the dry sand and the boy chased after. Another kick, a little further and Jack was grinning at him. “It’s at your end now, you kick it.”

  Laughing, Tom retrieved the ball and the pair of them spent a happy fifteen minutes or so kicking it to one another. Jack’s inability to stand in the same place meant that the game saw them move away from the car park, towards town. Tom kept an eye on the tide just to make sure Jack didn’t get caught out by it if the ball rolled down to the waterline.

  “I’m getting good at football, aren’t I Dad?”

  “You certainly are, mate.”

  Tom’s phone gave a feeble ring, sounding very unhealthy and he took it out of his pocket. The signal bars flickered between none and one. The second bar briefly flashed and the phone beeped.

  “Are you playing, Dad?”

  Tom kicked the ball back. “I’m just checking my phone.”

  “Can I have a look for some crabs then?”

  Tom checked the sea. “Yes, but only look in the pools by the wood, okay?”

  Jack made a huge show of sighing with his shoulders. “Yes, Dad,” he said. “It’s not like I’m a silly little kid or anything.”

  Tom smiled. The phone beeped once before the signal bars disappeared altogether. He checked his watch – it was time to go.

  He glanced up, to see Jack bending over looking into the first pool of water he’d come to. Satisfied he was safe, Tom looked out to sea. The fog was denser now and creeping closer.

  Jack stood up straight, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked briefly at Tom, as if to make
sure that he was still there and began striding across the sand, heading for the next set of groynes.

  “Jack!” Tom called, cupping his hand around his mouth, “Stay there!”

  The boy showed no signs of having heard and continued to trudge to the groynes.

  “Jack!”

  Someone moved onto the beach from the car park and Jack felt a tingle of unease as they moved in Jack’s direction. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but something was amiss. From this distance, a couple of hundred yards and in the increasingly poor visibility, it looked like a very tall, very thin person but beyond the general shape he couldn’t make out any details.

  Jack was still walking, unaware that someone was coming down the beach towards him. Maybe the person was just heading for the sea, their trajectory a coincidence, but Tom didn’t want to risk it.

  “Jack! Stay there!”

  The person seemed to move quicker at hearing the shout and appeared to glide over the uneven sand. Tom started to run, calling his son at the same time. Closer, closer. “Jack!” Closer still.

  Jack reached the groynes and turned, as if noticing the person for the first time. The boy stood, waiting patiently until the stranger reached him and, together, they walked around the wooden posts and behind the panels, disappearing from sight.

  “No!” Tom ran harder, his feet sinking into the sand and slowing him down, as if this was all a dream. He angled sideways towards the harder packed sand and when he reached it, his speed increased.

  “Jack!”

  The groyne was close now, but Tom couldn’t see Jack or the stranger. He kept running, his lungs burning, his legs feeling so strong he could perhaps run a marathon.

  He slammed into the first wooden support of the groyne and propelled himself around it, his hands rubbing over the rough and slimy texture. He was just about to call his son’s name again when the word died in his throat.

  Jack was kneeling down, the top of his head almost touching the wooden slats. At first, Tom thought he was injured, until he saw that his son was gingerly fishing in the pool at his feet, as if he both wanted and couldn’t bear the thought of a crab touching him.