The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  Stillness, she realised. All the wood’s other little sounds had vanished. No bird sang or flew; no beast of any size moved among the bushes or the brambles. She couldn’t even hear the sound of leaves falling from their branches. She breathed out, her breath billowing white and fading in the air.

  More snapping sounds: louder, closer. If danger threatens you on Browton Vale, hide among the rowan trees. She stepped between the two nearest rowan trunks, huddled in the middle of the thicket.

  More branches snapped. She pressed against the tree and shut her eyes.

  The ground shivered; something huge and ponderous walked on it, plodding closer to her. A rank smell blew into the clearing, a stench of decay and uncleanliness that made her retch. She felt the febrile warmth of the huge shape nearby, and the dirty wind of its breath. She could hear its breath: a wet, clogged snorting and hissing. It roared and she almost screamed, clinging to the trunk as a thin, reeking slime spattered her, but she didn’t; nor would she open her eyes. After a moment, there was an angry snarl, and then the breath and the furnace heat faded, the ground shivering again as it trudged away.

  Alice opened her eyes. Her legs felt very weak. She held onto the trunk. She saw something in the corner of her eye. Roughly human-shaped, misty, pale, vaguely luminescent. She thought that it was female, but couldn’t define what had given her that impression. The figure wavered, thinned; a moment later there was only a smudge of pale haze on the air, then even that was gone.

  Footsteps sounded on the path, but then she glimpsed a blue anorak and relaxed, stepping quickly out of the trees and smiling at the other walker as he passed.

  In one hand, she still held the Swiss Army knife; in the other, the rowan twigs.

  SHE TOOK A deep breath outside her front door. She didn’t know if she’d be safe doing this in the house, but then, she didn’t know if she’d be safe anywhere.

  She put the knife in her pocket, kept hold of the twigs with her left hand, dug her keys out with her right. She unlocked the door and pushed it wide, shaking and braced to run, but the hallway was empty.

  Inside, she shut the door behind her, went through to the kitchen and spread newspapers out over the table.

  Her hands shook. She listened. So far the house was quiet, but – Christ, they’d reached her in her dreams, at the hotel. She didn’t dare go up and look at the room. But by the same token, here was as good as anywhere, and where else could she go to get the time and privacy needed for this?

  Make a cross of rowan wood; bind it with your hair. Of course, the Red Man had made it sound so easy. For a start, she had to find a piece of hair long enough, which wasn’t so straightforward when you kept it short. Luckily, as it went, she hadn’t had hers cut in a while – was several weeks overdue, in fact – and there were a couple of big swatches at the back, starting to creep down her neck. She cut them off as close to the scalp as she could, weighed them down on the table with an old paperback, then set about trimming the rowan twigs, until she had half a dozen lengths of solid wood, a few inches long.

  Now for the hair. She puzzled over that for a moment, then took a candle, a lighter and a saucer and set them to hand. Next she pinched a small bunch of hairs between finger and thumb, drew them off from the rest and carefully twisted them together. After that, she lit the candle, dripped some hot wax into the saucer and dipped the ends of the hairs in and out before it could harden. She did the same with the other end, then crossed two of the twigs and set to work, wrapping the hair round and round. Tying it off was a fiddly business, but she managed. Then she made a second ‘rope’ and bound the twigs in the other direction, so the two braids crossed and formed a X.

  The result seemed reasonably sturdy, so Alice set to work using up the rest of her supplies to produce two more crosses, setting each aside as it was done.

  Whispers sounded from the hall, growing closer. Alice snatched up a cross, held it out before her. The whispers became gasps, then faded. The house was silent again.

  SHE WENT UPSTAIRS to her room, steeling herself as she did. But, for a start, the door was whole and unharmed; when she pushed it wide, the room was undisturbed, or at least in no worse a state than it had been when she’d left yesterday.

  Once again, Alice breathed out in relief. But not too much; the bruises on her back had still been real enough. At home or elsewhere, she decided, she was keeping the rowan crosses close.

  She changed the T-shirt for a lumberjack shirt – and no, not for any pleasant associations with John Revell that it might carry. It was warm, comfortable, and more importantly it had a breast pocket. A good place to keep the crosses without risking damage to them. At some point she’d have to try carving one.

  Those preliminary safety precautions taken, she went downstairs to the ground floor bedroom that still served as something of a storage space. She unpacked her old camp-bed and sleeping bag, having consigned them there when the new bed had been delivered, dragged them up to one of the spare bedrooms on the first floor, then added a couple of spare pillows. That should do. She should get a bedside table, though, to go with it, maybe a table lamp – she broke off, shook her head. Hopefully, John wasn’t even going to have to stay long. Maybe a night or two. Please God, no longer than that.

  It was done now. She went downstairs, wadded up the newspaper on the kitchen table and binned it, then made a cup of coffee, went into the front room and stuck an old Laurel and Hardy film on the DVD player. She sat there, stroking the crosses through the thin pocket of the shirt, and no-one bothered her.

  JOHN ARRIVED A little after one in an old Volvo estate. Alice guessed it had been maroon-coloured when it had rolled off the production line in Sweden – which had probably been roughly around the same time she and John had been wending their drunken way through Freshers’ Week at Salford – but it was hard to tell now. The long-suffering vehicle had been battered, scraped, spattered with mud and subjected, by the look of it, to pretty much every indignity under the sun that wouldn’t have actually proven immediately fatal, but it was still in one piece and still apparently able to get from A to B.

  I know how you feel, pal, Alice thought as John climbed out.

  “Okay,” he said, opening the boot. “Can you lend a hand?”

  “Sure.” She scampered back into the front room, pulled her trainers on and went outside. John came up the uneven path with a cardboard box full of gear. “Where can I put this for now?”

  Alice pointed him to the downstairs bedroom and made her own way outside. God knew what the curtain-twitchers of Collarmill Road would be making of this display.

  When John was done, he shut the boot, locked it and followed her back into the house. “So,” she said, “where do we start?”

  He shut the door behind him and grinned. “A brew would be great.”

  “Freeloader,” she said, sticking out her tongue, but put the kettle on just the same. “Still black with two?”

  “I was last time I checked, and it’s been over forty years, so I don’t see it changing now.”

  “Anyone ever tell you how funny you are, John?”

  “Lots of people,” he grinned.

  “They were lying. Trust me. I’ll try again: do you still like your coffee black, with two sugars?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “So,” she said, turning away, “what’s your plan?”

  “Well, first of all, I’m giving your place the once-over. I’ll be looking for where to set up my equipment, and for anything that might provide a natural explanation for what you’ve been seeing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  John bit his lip. “You might wanna get another check up, too.”

  “What for?”

  “Anything that might cause you to hallucinate.”

  She swallowed. “You mean like a brain tumour?”

  He looked. “Or maybe hallucinogens.”

  Alice snorted. “John, I haven’t touched anything like that in years.”

  “As far as you know.”


  “I’ve not been out clubbing it or anything. Shopping trips are pretty much my social highlight these days. No-one’s had a chance to spike me, not unless they’ve been putting LSD in the water supply here. I should be so lucky.”

  “Part of the whole ethical thing,” he said. “I need to know about any medical conditions that could have an effect.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ve got magic mushrooms growing in the water heater. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Only in your dreams, Revell,” said Alice as the kettle boiled.

  JOHN TOOK AN A4 pad and wandered round the house; Alice stayed in the front room and waited. He came downstairs with several pages’ worth of floor-plans.

  “Okay,” he said. “What rooms do you normally use?”

  She shrugged. “I kind of potter about, but the main ones – my bedroom and the bathroom – obviously – plus the front room and the kitchen.”

  “Right. And now one spare room for me.” John reached into the cardboard box and took out a roll of clear tape. “So while this is happening, those rooms are the only ones in use. All the others are locked off for the duration. You okay with that?”

  “If it that’s what it takes, I can cope.”

  “I haven’t got a theory that covers everything that’s been going on, but these kids? You said you were physically attacked, right?”

  “My back’s covered in bruises,” said Alice.

  “I’d forgotten that. Can I see them?”

  She turned away from him and took off the lumberjack shirt, fingers trembling on the buttons. What if she was unmarked? It was easy to imagine those little bastard kids delighting in such games, making her doubt her own sanity. Not to mention John doubting it. He was the only ally she had, except maybe Chris Fry.

  But she heard him hiss through his teeth. “Jesus. Okay, hold still. I want to take some pictures.”

  “I did close the curtains, didn’t I?”

  He laughed. “Yes, you did.”

  “Just checking. Someone peeps in and sees me topless with a guy taking pictures, that’s how rumours get started.”

  “You’re not topless. You’ve still got your bra on.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “And that’s how it’s bloody staying.”

  “Damn. Another cunning plan foiled.”

  John took a series of pictures at different angles and ranges.

  “Surprised you bothered,” she said. “I mean, there’s no proving I didn’t do this to myself somehow.”

  “True,” said John. “But this way we’ve documented the injuries you have got. And all the pictures are time-coded. If we get any others –”

  “Let’s hope not!”

  “If, I said – we can date them. As of now, we’re recording and documenting everything.” John cleared his throat. “You can put the shirt back on now.”

  “Thanks.” She rebuttoned it; her fingers brushed the breast pocket, felt the contours of the cross.

  “Those aren’t anyone’s imagination,” John said at last. “And if they aren’t self-inflicted, the most likely explanation is that someone’s got into the house and attacked you. So, I’ll be booby-trapping all the unused rooms.”

  “You’ll be what?”

  He grinned. “Half the fun.” John toed the cardboard box. “Got a whole bag of tricks in here – all sorts of cool ways to find out if anyone goes in or out when they ain’t supposed to.”

  “In case I’m trying to fake something, you mean?”

  “Or in case someone’s trying to fuck with you.” He turned serious. “Most of what I use is usually marketed for something else. Shit, I even use kids’ toys.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Some of it’s sold as ‘spy gear.’ Pretty funny, huh?”

  “Jesus. I feel so much better.”

  “But a lot of the other stuff’s used for home security. I’ve got alarm beams, for instance. Great way to make sure no-one’s getting somewhere that’s locked off. Anyone breaks the beam, we’ll hear about it. So we set those up. Some simple clear tape across doorways, black cotton thread strung up in rooms – booby trap the hell out of the place.”

  “I’m starting to see the appeal of this.”

  “It does have its fun moments. I’ll be setting up cameras too, so everything gets recorded. All clear?”

  Alice nodded.

  “Okay, then. Time for a few quick questions.”

  Alice sat on the sofa. John sank back into an armchair and crossed one long leg over the other. “Have you noticed any unusual cold spots in the house?” he asked.

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Not particularly?”

  “Nothing I’ve noticed. I mean, it can get a bit cold without the heating on, but I’ve never felt unusually cold when anything’s happened, if you see what I mean.”

  “Okay.” He made a note. “So let’s go through where things have actually happened.”

  “I’ve heard whispers coming from the hall, or seeming to come from there.”

  “Right. And you were in the hall when the spear thing happened too, right?”

  “Yeah – well, I took a step or so outside. And then I ran through into the kitchen, and then out back.”

  “And it’d turned into this garden? Right?”

  Alice’s face was hot. She felt ridiculous now, trying to tell this story in terms of bare fact. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, and where else?”

  “My bedroom, the landing, the stairs.”

  “Right...”

  He was as kind to her as the questioning allowed, she knew. When he was done, he nodded. “Okay. Next point: journal.” He took an A5 spiral notebook from the box and handed it to her, along with a fistful of biros. “From now on, you have any more experiences, you write ’em down. Look inside the front cover, you’ll see what you got to do.”

  Alice opened the journal. Taped inside the front cover was a small laminated card; on it were printed a series of questions:

  When? (Time and date).

  What was the weather like?

  What were you doing?

  What happened?

  Who were you with?

  How did you feel?

  “You answer those questions for each and every occurrence,” he said. “Next step, I’m gonna look at where’s best to set the cameras and shit. After that... it’s mostly watching and waiting. That and homework.”

  “Homework?”

  “That surveyor’s report, for a start, if you got it.”

  “Shit. Give me a second.” She went into the front bedroom and rooted in the first of the remaining crates, which contained miscellaneous documents. She was braced for a long hunt, but as it turned out, the surveyor’s report was one of the first things she found. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Anything I can find. Watercourses under the house, for instance – they can cause cold spots and any number of weird sounds.”

  “Hey, I told you there hadn’t been any cold spots –”

  “Just an example.”

  “Okay. Fine.” She wouldn’t mention what had happened in the woods this morning, then. Much less last night’s dream, or the tattered red cloth. She didn’t need to be made any more foolish, especially not about the rowan crosses in her shirt pocket. They made her feel a little safer, at least for now.

  “So, what now?”

  “For me, homework,” he said, tapping the surveyor’s report. “Seeing what I can find out about this site. After that? Sitting and listening.”

  “Listening?”

  “To the house,” he said. “Seriously. One of the best things you can do. You get to hear all the normal shit going on – the house settling, the neighbours, the wind.” He shrugged. “Gives you a feel for what is and isn’t normal here.”

  “Good luck working that out,” Alice said. “I’m fucked if I know.”

  UNABLE TO SETTLE, Alice pottered around th
e house, going from room to room. The flat black lenses and gleaming red-light eyes of John’s video cameras confronted her wherever she went. After a few minutes, she came downstairs, put on her coat and went into the front room. “What do you want for dinner?”

  “Me?” John blinked. “I was gonna get a Chinese, or some chips.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been eating takeaways damn near non-stop since I moved in. Time I did something about it. Consider a decent home-cooked meal part of your fee.”

  John laughed. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I was thinking maybe shepherd’s pie, or spag bol.”

  “Either’s fine by me, if you still cook ’em like you used to.”

  “I’ve had no complaints,” she said, then quickly turned away. Any complaints would have come from Andrew or Emily. “Back in a mo.”

  “Okay. You all right?”

  “Fine.”

  She went out into the gathering dark.

  IN THE END she settled on the spaghetti bolognese, as her recipe – hardly changed since their university days – was the simplest: everything but the meat (tomatoes, onions, garlic, herbs, wine, Worcestershire sauce, etc) went in the blender. The meat was dry-fried and the fat drained off; stir in the blender’s contents, throw in three or four bay leaves, cover, simmer and that was it.

  She fished out the scrap of red cloth and studied it. From the front room she heard John humming. She remembered that habit from when they’d lived together. And here she was, playing the little woman for him again.

  A sudden, horrible thought hit her. That saying people always bandied about when something dreadful occurred: everything happens for a reason. She’d come close to decking some New Age crap-spouting idiot who’d told her that after Emily died.

  But what if it was true? What had followed from Emily’s death? Her marriage had collapsed and she’d moved back up north. Moved here, where this had all begun... leading her to contact John again.