by Will Storr
‘Yes, actually I just phoned up about that. To cancel our interview.’
‘Oh. Oh. Why?’
‘Sorry about that. Goodbye.’
‘But –’
‘Goodbye.’
15
‘That’s Annie’s room’
THAT VIEW. IT would be hers now – hers to look at, whenever. She paused for a moment and looked out at it again, through the small window, and rubbed her hands together for warmth. She liked it down there, way out west. They were nearer to the edge of things. There were right at the edge of the land, for a start, where the ground drops into the ocean and the spray leaps up at it. They were nearer to history, too. For centuries, the only things that had changed around there were the cars and the Christian names. And best of all, they were nearer to nature. The weather in that part of the world was quick and changeable, but on that particular May morning, the sky and the sea had decided to lie back after the furies they’d whipped themselves into during the winter. The sun glittered on top of the Atlantic and slipped easily through the small, thin window in the top room of the First And Last Inn. It looked out towards Sennen Bay and in towards a white-walled double bedroom filled with cardboard boxes and dust that floated like plankton in the shafts of light.
Lynne blew warm breath into her cupped hands. That morning, despite the heat of the day outside, she was freezing. Really, unaccountably cold. Even though she’d pulled on a thick jumper and then a lambswool cardigan on top of that to keep the leaking chill off, she could still feel it. It bled its way under the layers and pushed itself into her skin. Just as she became aware that her fingertips were slipping automatically into her trouser pockets, she stopped herself and decided to go downstairs to see how Neil was getting along on their first day. She picked her way through the boxes that she was in the middle of unpacking, and stepped out of the wooden door, which was stiff and misshapen with age. Moments after she entered the low, dark corridor that led to the stairs, the old, crooked door slammed shut behind her.
Lynne and Neil had decided to get back into the pub game after a four-year break as civilians in Worcestershire. Lynne had tired quickly of work in the local Tesco. She missed pub life and the sense of community and satisfaction she got from running her own house. So, when they heard that a seventeenth-century inn ten minutes’ walk from Land’s End in Cornwall had come up, they decided that this would be the place where their new future would begin.
Lynne stepped into the pub and slipped behind the bar where her husband was busy cleaning the old till with a J-cloth.
‘Dead chilly up there,’ she said.
‘Is it?’ he said, stopping what he was doing and looking up at Lynne in her bright layers of woolly insulation. ‘It’s a lovely day though.’ He thwacked the dirty cloth open and motioned towards the open door.
Lynne smiled at her husband, at his shaved head and wash-worn rugby shirt. She put her arm around his waist. He already looked absolutely at home, she thought. He looked perfect.
‘How you getting on?’ she asked.
‘Fine, yeah,’ he said. ‘All good.’
‘I still don’t like it in that front bedroom,’ she said. ‘Can’t we sleep in the other one?’
‘Other one’s too small,’ he said.
‘But it’s freezing in there,’ she said.
‘It’ll warm up,’ Neil said, as he turned to look at the grey-haired, grey-eyed man who was sat at the bar. ‘Can I get you another, mate?’
‘Pint of Best, yeah,’ he said, tipping the head of his empty pint towards them. ‘Talking about that big room up there?’ he said.
‘Yeah, front one,’ Neil said. ‘Lynne’s just unpacking in there. Says it’s cold.’
‘That’s Annie’s room,’ the man said, nodding.
Neil and Lynne looked at him.
‘Annie’s room?’ said Neil.
‘Yeah. That’s why you’re cold in there. It’s Annie’s room. It’s haunted. Hasn’t nobody told you about Annie yet?’
‘A ghost?’ Lynne said, smiling. Poor old bugger, she thought. He’s either trying to be friendly or he’s trying it on. Either way, you’ve got to humour them.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We’ve all seen her. You not met Derek, yet? Old landlord?’
‘No,’ Neil said. ‘Still a local, is he?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ the man said, nodding again and glancing at the ale tap. ‘He’ll be in soon. Derek’ll tell you. That’s Annie’s room.’ Neil pulled the pump down quickly. A hard draft of beer shooshed into the fresh glass with an unexpected force, splashing up over Neil’s hand.
‘Well, Annie’s just going to have to get used to us, isn’t she?’ Neil smiled. He finished pulling the pint, slowly now, and, when he was sure the old punter wasn’t looking, gave Lynne a tickled wink.
That night, after lock-up, a huge wind reared up over Sennen. It was barracking the small window of the big, cold room upstairs as Neil climbed into bed next to Lynne. Safe and together under clean sheets, they chatted for a while over the noise, which excited yet quietly unnerved them. They talked, but they didn’t mention the storm. They just chatted about the first night’s takings and about how they missed their pets, who were still in kennels. Quickly, though, fatigue began to wash through them and Lynne leaned over to switch the light off. The moment the bulb died, the room became icy. Lynne pulled the covers up to her neck. She moved across to Neil for warmth. She put her arms around his middle and felt his weight rise and fall as his breathing lengthened and slowed. And then, he jolted.
‘Neil?’ Lynne said. ‘You all right?’
He jolted again. His face twitched sharply as, outside, a new wave of wind arrived, fresh from the Atlantic, and crashed down onto the roof of the pub. Lynne looked over at the window as it rattled and realised the room was pitch-black, despite the streetlight outside and the time her eyes had had to get used to the darkness. She could see nothing at all, as the temperature dived still further and the air took on a damp, musty smell. Neil made a small grunting sound and jolted again.
‘Neil?’ Lynne said again. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Nets,’ he mumbled, from the deep of his nightmare.
‘Neil?’ Lynne moved closer and shivered and tried to make out the pattern of the wall or the shape of the big wardrobes against it. She couldn’t. She was scared and freezing. She was confused. And she was shocked by the absolute darkness and the smell; it was horrible and it smelt so old and so wet and the black was so black and so thick and so much.
‘Get the nets off,’ Neil said. ‘Get them off me. GET THE NETS OFF.’
Morning light came like an antidote. The room was real again – solid and uncomplicated, as another warm Cornish day began outside of the small sagging window that looked out towards Sennen Bay.
‘Come on, love,’ said Lynne, squeezing Neil’s shoulder. ‘Best get up.’
‘Yep,’ he said, sniffing and clearing his nose and throat.
‘Did you have a good night’s sleep?’ Lynne said, catching his eye.
‘Yeah, fine.’ He smiled. He raised his arm and scratched at nothing on the back of his neck. With that expansive movement, he tried to distract her from the question, and from the answer, and from the fact that he wouldn’t meet her look.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
All day, the bedroom was freezing. And every time Lynne left it and walked down the low, dark corridor that led off it, the door would close by itself behind her, even though it was stiff and deformed with age and difficult to push shut by hand. She was up and down between the pub and the flat for most of the day. With all the work there were few moments for reflection, and cashing-up time came quickly. And, as the night slid over the land and the sea again, Lynne sat at the bar, watching Neil at the till.
‘Do all right today?’ she said.
‘Yeah, think so,’ said Neil. ‘That old landlord’s not been in yet – that Derek. Wouldn’t mind having a chat with –’
Suddenly, Neil was sti
ll, his eyes frozen and wide.
‘What was that?’ he said.
He looked around. There was a silence.
‘What was what, love?’ said Lynne.
And then, it was gone. Neil relaxed and shrugged his shoulders and let a short, dismissive laugh come out of his nose and his skin was clammy all over and tight and puckered with goose pimples.
‘Er … nothing,’ he said, and looked away. He carried on with his counting. The till area was the only part of the room that was lit now, and Lynne was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the depth and alien unfamiliarity of the shadows that surrounded her. Suddenly, their new home didn’t feel like their home any more.
‘Can’t get the telly to work in the bedroom,’ she said, rubbing her arm. ‘It’s weird. It’ll work in every single room but the bedroom. Just can’t get reception in there.’
‘Maybe it’s Annie,’ said Neil, and they both laughed, watching each other as they did so.
Half an hour later, in the large room with the small window, Lynne leaned over Neil and turned the light off. She lay back, moved to pull the quilt up to her shoulders, and then it came into the room with them. It came closer and closer and then a huge, invisible weight fell on her and pushed her into the bed. She strained, managing to push her head up just an inch, but it was slammed back down again and then she was choking, being pushed, pushed down into the bed as the darkness stole the room again and the smell swept in, old and musty and dirty and damp. Lynne struggled as she pushed up, up and tried to call for Neil and she could feel the warmth of his sleeping body on her leg and the freezing, bitter air on her face as she lay there, straining, alert, terrified, heavy, helpless, scared. And then, she saw it. She saw it, first a movement, then a shape and then, there it was, a black shadow, a tall, black shadow moving out from the wall and coming towards her as she struggled and fought and tried to lift her arms in the oily, freezing, stinking blackness. Lynne tried to take breath. She lifted her chin higher and pushed it up and up, a bit higher and there was water, there was water, and it was coming up, higher and higher. She tried to call out and she felt like she was drowning, she was drowning, she was pinned down in the sea and the salty freezing water rose and rose and it came and it lapped and broke around her chin and her nose and she tried to scream out, No, No, God, Help, No. And then the shadow came and it moved in nearer and she could see it was a woman, a woman in a dark shawl that was tucked in through her arms. And it walked as Lynne lifted her chin and tried to breathe and then Annie was so close that Lynne could see that her clothes were made of black cloth and the cloth was rough like hessian and she could see the moonlight on the water and she was drained and frightened and struggling, fighting and praying and then the smell came in stronger. The foul, ancient stink blew in fierce and low and Lynne tried again and again to fight her way free as the water lapped and broke and rose and she was tired, so tired, the exhaustion dry and ripping through her muscles and the sea came in over her chin and her mouth and she could see the lights far away on the shore as freezing water rolled into her ears and over her head. I’m not frightened, she told herself desperately as the water fell into her mouth and pushed up her nose and she began to drown. I’m not frightened, I’m not frightened.
Then, the sea was gone, and she was back in the room again. She could move but she was scared and stiff. She watched the woman walk around the bed and stand over Neil, who started jolting and twitching and crying and begging. ‘Get the nets off,’ he was crying. ‘Get them off me, get them off me.’
And suddenly, Neil woke up.
‘Are you all right?’ Lynne said to him, as her lungs thirstily pulled in breath.
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Not really.’
They could both feel it, oppressive and strange and terrifying and lurking in the cold. They could both feel it, and they didn’t want to talk about it.
‘If you want to sleep with the light on, Neil,’ she said, ‘sleep with the light on.’
Neil rolled over, and switched it on. The walls were instantly washed clean as the bulb worked its white magic. And Lynne and Neil slept fitfully until the morning came again.
The next day, their pets arrived from kennels. It was their happiest day yet and Lynne felt reassured, that night, as they prepared to turn the light off again. But as soon as the darkness returned, Rosie, the old ginger cat, screamed and fought out and spat. And then Lynne couldn’t move, the blackness and the ancient, musty smell came in, and Lynne was pinned down again, drowning in the sea, as Neil was flailing in his nightmare of the nets and the cat was on her hind legs hissing and pawing at the air and outside the dogs were barking and spinning and crying and then, Annie came again. Lynne thought, I’m not frightened of you, as Rosie hissed and raged and the water rose. I’m not frightened of you.
The next morning, Lynne and Neil got up and found that their cats had disappeared. They searched the flat, the pub and the cellar for hours. They called and whistled and rustled packets of food. Then, in a quiet moment, Neil heard a muffled, curling sob coming from the bedroom. They hadn’t looked in there. There’d been no point – they’d shut the door behind them when they’d left that morning, and they knew the room was empty. And yet, he heard it. A cat’s cry coming from the big, cold bedroom at the front. How could they be in there?
Neil walked through the old door, which moaned as it opened, and looked inside. He saw nothing but the white walls and the wardrobes and the small old window that looked out towards the bay. And then he heard it again.
The wardrobe.
‘Lynne!’ he shouted and went to the closet. He turned the old, steel key and he opened the door. Just as Lynne came in, she saw their black and white cat leap out of the wardrobe, scream and dart away.
‘Shit!’ said Neil. ‘How the fuck –’
‘Neil … ’ said Lynne, and there was more crying now. This time, from one of the two drawers underneath the wardrobe. Neil looked at Lynne. Lynne looked back. They breathed and Neil went, with a shaking hand, to open the small drawer. They were near to the edge of things now, all right. The edge of tears and of panic and of dread and of nothing they could ever hope to possibly understand. Neil pulled the upper drawer, and it opened with an old, wooden whine. And there was Tabs, curled inside it, petrified and trembling. Neil lifted out her warm, stiff body and passed her to Lynne. He opened the next drawer. And there was Rosie, lying on her side, shaking, weeping and trapped.
‘Fucking hell,’ he said, and looked at Lynne. ‘Fucking hell, what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lynne said.
But, by now, she did know. By now, she knew all about it.
‘I want to move to the other bedroom,’ he said.
‘OK,’ Lynne said, as the cats fled down the corridor, ‘but before we do, I think there’s something we need to talk about.’
‘What?’ Neil said.
‘You’re frightened of the ghost, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘How did you know?’ he said.
‘Because the nets you’re dreaming of, the ones that you think are being thrown onto you,’ she began.
‘Yeah?’ said Neil.
‘They’re not. They’re throwing them onto Annie. They’re throwing them onto her to get her out.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Neil.
‘Derek came in last night,’ she said, ‘and I told him what had been happening and he said, “That’s Annie. She wouldn’t do anything to harm you. She’s just trying to tell you how she died. It’s all about it on the door.” And I said, “What door?” And he showed me. You know the door that leads up here, from the pub? The one that we’ve kept open since we moved in?’
‘Yeah?’ Neil said.
‘It’s got a plaque on it. On the other side of it, the side that’s been against the wall all this time. Come and see.’
They walked through the cold corridor, down the stairs and into the pub, and Lynne kicked the doorstop away. The door closed and Neil read the hand-painted sign
that had been hidden on the other side:
Former landlady Ann Treeve presided over smuggling and wrecking operations, together with the local parson, until turning Queen’s evidence against Dionysius Williams a Sennen farmer (a smuggling agent) who then served a long prison sentence. For Annie’s ‘service’ to the Crown she was staked out on Sennen beach and drowned by the incoming tide. Her body was laid out in the large upstairs room in this inn, prior to the burial in an unmarked grave for fear of retribution by way of grave robbers.
I look at Lynne standing in the kitchen in front of me, as the autumn wind picks up outside and she stirs our cups of tea.
‘Christ,’ I say, ‘that’s weird.’
Just then, behind us, Neil walks along the corridor towards the lounge. ‘Scary’s what it bloody is,’ he says as he passes.
Lynne smiles at me. ‘Neil doesn’t like to talk about it.’ She hands me the warm mug. ‘You shut the bedroom door when you’re in there tonight,’ she says, ‘and you’ll see. She is about tonight. You can feel her. It’s almost like you’re being watched. Especially walking along the passageway outside the room. She doesn’t like being talked about, I don’t think. Things seem to happen when she’s talked about. And Rosie’s behaving very strangely. She’s batting the air and there’s nothing there.’
I read about Neil and Lynne’s experiences on the online version of their local paper, the Cornishman, during my lunch-break, last week. I got two paragraphs into the report, tracked down their phone number, called Lynne up and asked if I could stay the night in Annie’s room. Once she’d said yes, I picked up my sandwich again and finished reading the article. I got to the bit about the drowning and the nets, then the bit about the pets who got shut in the wardrobe, and then the bit about the body being laid out in the room. This was after all the arrangements had been made. After Lynne had said, ‘Are you sure about this?’ and after I had laughed cheerfully and said, ‘Oh, yes! Honestly, it’ll be fine.’
