The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  She took a bottle of wine from the fridge, uncorked it, then filled a glass almost to the top. She went into her small but neat sitting room, taking both glass and bottle with her. Still standing, she tasted the wine before setting the bottle down on a glass coffee table.

  Put the TV on, or not? She weighed up the option in her mind. Not, she decided. Even if it meant having some kind of company in the room, there was hardly anything worth watching nowadays and she hated reality shows (whose reality was it supposed to be anyway? The lives they showed were nothing like her own or anybody’s she knew).

  Lili walked to the window and looked out at the storm. So hard was it raining, she could barely make out the lights from the shops and houses across the road. She shivered. The rain was unrelenting, sudden gusts of wind throwing it at the glass in wintry flurries. Lili pulled the curtains closed and turned away, going to the comfortable beige armchair that faced the television screen. The window behind her rattled in its frame.

  She sat, sipped her wine and brooded. Too many evenings like this. Alone in her little flat above the shop, drinking wine, sometimes ’til a whole bottle was empty. Lili never got drunk, though. No matter how many glasses of wine she had, she always ended up sober. The second or third glass might give her a lift, but it invariably led downhill to depression after that. She wished it had a different effect, wished it would wipe out certain memories. Never did, though. If anything, consumption of wine revived them. So why did she drink? A shrink might know.

  Placing the glass next to the wine bottle on the low coffee table, she relaxed back into the chair. Something else that rekindled times past. She was looking down at one of her wristbands. With a deliberate shrug of her shoulders as if to say, ‘Who cares?’ she pulled off the coloured band and stared at the thin, fading scar across her wrist. There was another one hidden on her other arm.

  Stupid cow! she thought, not because she had tried to bleed to death, but because she’d done it all wrong and had been saved by a young Asian doctor in the Surrey hospital’s A and E department. Seven years ago. Since then, she had learnt that the most successful way to slit your wrists was down the veins, not across them.

  So she had been saved and made to feel foolish in the process. Why kill yourself just because an affair that had been doomed from the start had ended predictably badly? Don hadn’t been worth it; his wife deserved him. For three years they had been lovers and in the end he’d refused to leave his wife as he had promised. It was not even that there were children involved: his wife (Don had complained) was barren.

  Lili had fallen in love with him at the minor pharmaceutical publicity agency where she’d found her first job after leaving art college. She had been a junior art director, Don was the marketing manager. Love very nearly at first sight. Ha-ha, witty, because she was psychic and had the power of second sight. She should have known the outcome from the beginning then.

  In the end, he had chosen Marion, his wife, but even so, Marion was not satisfied. The bitch had made Lili’s life hell after she discovered where she lived. Phone calls, hate mail, threats and even physical confrontation – Marion would not leave Lili alone. Marion the mad woman. Who wanted revenge. Soon to die of cancer.

  After her swift but ghastly death, Lili and Don had not tried to rekindle their love for each other: she because he had let her down irrevocably, had turned his pledges into lies; he because he was weighed down by too much guilt. So Lili had changed her life. Certainly they could not work together in the same company, which was too small to get lost in, and he was not going to turn his back on a good job, especially after such a profound tragedy. No, Lili had been the one to leave. It seemed inevitable to her, the only thing to do.

  So her father had helped her financially, as had the bank, which thought her idea was sound (it was at a time when banks were practically throwing money at borrowers in order to hook them for life with an almost scandalous pay-back interest rate). She had enough money to lay down a deposit on the charming little high-street shop in Pulvington, North Devon, that had been advertised in the property section of The Times. The mortgage she took out was from a building society that had an office in the same town. The shop had previously sold ladies’ high fashion, which apparently had low appeal to the local women, but Lili had fallen in love with it the moment she stepped through the door.

  The town was crammed with tourists in the summer and Lili had the idea of selling craftworks, light hats, paintings and exquisite but not too expensive hand-tooled ornaments and jewellery. All executed by herself and local artists (who were easy to find by placing ads in the local press). Tourists always wanted something to take home from places they visited, either as gifts or keepsakes; also the indigenous population would be interested if the work was quality and the price right.

  And her idea appeared to have merit – the shop attracted a lot of customers in the first few summer months. Unfortunately, she hadn’t given much thought to the winter season, when most of the tourists had disappeared and dark days did not encourage locals to buy what might be regarded as frivolities. So as a sideline, and to help make up for loss of trade, Lili returned to giving psychic readings, again putting ads in the local newspapers and her card in shop windows.

  Both occupations balanced out well – readings could be given in the evenings or on half-day-closing afternoons, so they never interfered with the day-to-day running of the shop – her reputation as a psychic soon established itself locally.

  Unfortunately, the past had not been left behind.

  It was on a Tuesday evening that the dead wife of her ex-lover had returned for more revenge. Lili was at an elderly woman’s small bungalow on the outskirts of the town, her client a widow of several years who had come to wonder if her late husband was in a happy state of being (apparently he’d been generally disgruntled for most of their married life) wherever he was now, or if gloom had followed him into the next world. Older women usually wanted to know about relatives or loved ones who’d passed over, while younger and middle-aged females (nearly all her clients were female) generally wished to discover their own futures, good or bad (Lili only relayed the good, unless the bad was a warning of some kind that could be acted upon).

  This was the second visit Lili had made to this particular woman, a Mrs Ada Clavelly by name, the first time being only a partial success – her husband had come through and given indications that he truly was Ada’s late partner in life by referring to things only he and his wife would know about, but his voice had been distant, as if from along way off (which, of course, in a metaphysical sense it was), and Lili had hoped for a clearer ‘sighting’ this time.

  On that particular late-spring night, however, something occurred that had almost destroyed her confidence as a ‘seer’. In fact, something happened that terrified both her and her sitter.

  Instead of the spirit or voice of Ada’s long-departed husband coming through, Marion, Lili’s ex-lover’s wife, had made her presence known. Through Ada, herself.

  Sometimes Lili could talk to a spirit as if it were in the same room, but on rare occasions it might speak to the client through Lili’s own mouth – it had happened to Lili only twice since she’d known she was psychic and clairvoyant, and she had never encouraged the phenomenon, it just happened that way. But this time, the spirit had used Lili’s client, Ada, to speak through.

  Lili could only stare as Ada’s very features seemed to alter. Even though she was sure that this was an illusion conjured by a voice that was instantly recognizable for its husky venom – Lili still clearly remembered the phone calls and the face-to-face confrontations between herself and Marion five years before, the low threatening voice that had risen through the octaves to evolve into a shrill shrieking – it seemed so real. With Marion’s words came her visual image, transmuting another living person’s features into her own likeness. It was incredible and something Lili had never before experienced. She was stunned by it.

  The possessed woman lunged across the ta
ble between them and spat and hissed into Lili’s face. Ada’s grey hair had stiffened as if charged with static (Lili actually heard the faint crackle of electricity coming from Ada’s hair) and the room itself sank to a wintry coldness that frosted breaths.

  Clawed hands tried to scratch the psychic’s face, but Lili pulled back in time and the widow’s brittle fingernails scrabbled in the air before falling and raking Lili’s blouse. Lili screamed but the malevolent entity that had appropriated the widow’s body did not have the power to make it rise from the tabletop. Instead it lay collapsed on the table, where it twitched and writhed as though in seizure.

  When she had screamed, Lili had jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over. Hands to her mouth, she could only stare down at the jerking body on the table as Marion’s shrieks died, her borrowed power spent, her curses becoming murmurs and finally dying away altogether.

  The poor widow woman was left in a state of shock, although she wasn’t aware of what had taken place, only that she was very, very frightened. As was Lili.

  She had helped Ada sit back in her chair and quickly brought a glass of water from the kitchen for her to sip. But Ada remained trembling for a long while after and Lili was afraid to leave her alone like that, even though she herself was desperate to get out of the room and away from the bungalow lest the transfiguration recur. She had stayed with the suddenly frail, weeping woman for as long as it took to settle her, to reassure her that nothing like it was going to happen again (a reassurance that lacked conviction).

  Lili had told Ada that she had been momentarily possessed by a rogue spirit, an evil one that sometimes came through unbidden. The psychic hadn’t explained about her ex-lover’s dead wife whose soul, tormented by jealousy and reprisal, had somehow reached out from the dimension in which she now existed to hurt the person she still believed had wronged her.

  Unsurprisingly, Ada Clavelly had not wanted to see Lili again; as for Lili, she vowed never again to make herself vulnerable to unearthly forces. Since that evening she had endeavoured to block her psychic sensing and refused to contact the dead any more. Nevertheless, she was still susceptible to psychic vibrations, even though she did her best to ignore them.

  That had been eighteen months ago and her resolve remained firm. She had tried to help Eve Caleigh because the poor woman was desperate and had pleaded with her. It had not turned out that way: something evil had manifested itself through Lili and she couldn’t let it happen again.

  But now, on this Friday night, alone in her flat, she was aware of metaphysical disturbances around her, as if there was a riving beginning in the thin dividing fabric between life and death. Somehow she knew Crickley Hall was at its centre.

  She gave a little start and almost spilt her wine as the wind outside threw rain at the windowpanes. Lili shivered, but it was because of an inner coldness and had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

  Her hand shaking, she lifted the glass and sipped more wine.

  58: MORE MEMORIES

  Maurice Stafford, now a man – an old man of more than seventy years who looked and felt much younger – glanced around the room. The inn was filling up despite the storm raging outside. People looked forward to their end-of-week tipple. For some it might be the only social evening of the weekend. Dreary little lives, sad little people. If only they knew the pleasure that comes from fulfilling a duty. He had been looking forward to it for a long, long time, but circumstances had never been right. This night they could not be better.

  He drank more brandy and wondered whether to finish it in one big swallow. No, make it last. He had plenty of time, but didn’t want to refresh his glass. He wanted to keep a clear head. Too soon to go to the house, though, so take your time with the Hennessy.

  Despite the hubbub around him – the telling of stale jokes, the laughter, the complaints and warnings about the inclement weather – Maurice ignored it all.

  He easily slipped back into his reverie.

  Now Maurice had learned that inflicting pain was so agreeable it thickened the penis (Magda had told him the proper word for his willy or wee-wee thing all those years ago when he shared her bed, although she had emphasized it was a bad word, a dirty word), he was willing and eager to enjoy the experience again. And he soon discovered that the beating was not the only aberration (this particular word one that he learned later – many years later) of Augustus Theophilus Cribben’s, in his quest for absolution, for not only did he need his soul to be cleansed by pain but he also wanted the vessel in which his soul resided to be cleansed.

  On several occasions, Maurice was charged with the task of scouring Cribben’s body from tip to toe, using a strong carbolic soap and a stiff-haired brush of the type used for scrubbing floors. Cribben would stand in three inches of water (the same amount he allowed the children) in the bath and Maurice would start with his face and wiry hair.

  ‘Harder!’ the guardian would demand of the boy in a voice that was almost guttural. ‘Purge my wicked flesh, boy, drive out the impurities.’

  And as with the flogging, Cribben’s penis would engorge until it stood fully erect. Maurice scrubbed hard as he was bidden, grimacing with the effort, and Cribben’s skin turned blotchy red and raw. How his guardian stood the rough scrubbing of brush and harsh soap, the boy could only wonder. Eventually Cribben’s neck and back would arch, his arms rise to shoulder height, and he would stare at the bright light in the ceiling, his eyes wide and glazed as if hypnotized, his mouth stretched open, yellowed teeth laid bare, and Maurice would scrub even harder, aware of the pain he was causing, Cribben’s chest, his legs, his groin, livid with the scraping, scored by the hard bristles of the brush.

  Finally, the purged man would all but collapse, his hands grabbing the edge of the bath as he bent down, legs almost giving way beneath him, hissing at Maurice to cease, to give him respite, his body chastened, his sins absolved.

  In later years, Maurice was also to wonder that Augustus Cribben had never once molested him during a session either of scourging or scouring, even though Cribben was clearly aroused (did he never notice that Maurice was aroused too?). Magda, on the other hand, was a different matter.

  He had found her waiting for him outside the bathroom door as usual after the scrubbing of her brother and this time there was a peculiar lustre to her usually colde yes. After he’d closed the bathroom door behind him, leaving the naked man alone to continue his now-gibbering prayers, she had beckoned Maurice to follow. Cribben’s sister led the boy along the dingy landing to her bedroom, where she had drawn him in by tugging at his shirtsleeve. She brought him to her bed and, still wordlessly, she lay him down on it. She turned off the bedside lamp and he heard her undressing in the darkness.

  If Magda was disappointed with her young lover – he may have been big and mature for his age, but he was only twelve years old! – she didn’t reveal it. Instead, she told him to pray with her and beg the Lord’s forgiveness for the mortal sin they committed, only they must do it quietly so that they wouldn’t be heard by her brother should he pass by her door during his nocturnal prowling. An hour later, after many repeated acts of contrition, Maurice was allowed to leave and sneak up to the dormitory.

  Next day, Magda was her usual cold, stone-faced self, although she treated him with less severity than the other boys and girls. Augustus Cribben also regarded Maurice with less asperity, never once using the cane on him nor punishing him in any other way – not that Maurice ever did anything to occasion the guardian’s displeasure. In a way, he had become part of Crickley Hall’s ruling triumvirate, although his own power was limited to informing on the other orphans and keeping them in order whenever Cribben or Magda were busy in other parts of the house.

  And so it went on: the flogging, then scrubbing of Augustus Cribben, the loveless trysts with Magda. All this went on while the other children lived in misery, with daily punishments, sparse rations and lack of love (which was the most needed).

  The little Jewish boy was sing
led out for particular punishment. Maurice was delighted to tell Magda that Stefan had climbed into Susan Trainer’s bed one night and slept with her until morning call. Magda was disgusted (and perversely pleased) to hear of such naughtiness and Stefan was at once taken down to the bitterly cold, damp cellar and left there all day and all night, on his own in the dark, the only sound he would hear being the rushing water at the bottom of the well. It was a dreadful punishment, for the total darkness could conjure all manner of monsters and demons in the mind of a five-year-old child, especially one who was already traumatized by personal tragedy. Susan Trainer had protested, shouting at both Cribben and Magda, and had received six strokes of the cane for her trouble. Maurice had smirked when she continued to plead for the little boy and had taken six more strokes, this time across the knuckles of her hand. That had shut her up all right, although she had howled with pain. When Stefan had been brought up from the cellar next day, he was pale and quieter than ever before. He was cowed.

  Maurice enjoyed himself at Crickley Hall. He revered Augustus Cribben, who remained the dominant one; even during the canings and scrubbings, the boy was merely his acolyte, his chattel, which suited Maurice fine. And Maurice also enjoyed his secret liaisons and alliance with Magda, even if her body was skin and bones and her breasts were tiny and flat (such imperfections did not bother the boy; his sexual awakening was too glorious for criticism). Life, if a little austere, was good at Crickley Hall and he revelled in it.

  But then that interfering busybody Nancy Linnet had come along and tried to spoil things.

  59: THUNDER

  Loren and Cally were in their room, both of them subdued. Eve had waited ’til Loren returned from school, and then had explained to them both that their brother would not be coming back to them, that he had drowned a year ago when she had lost him in the park. The two sisters had sobbed in their mother’s arms for a long time afterwards, but Eve had not wept with them. She did not understand why this was so, only that her thoughts – and heart – were numbed; there were no reserves of emotion left. She knew the certainty of Cam’s death should have broken her, but she realized that perhaps she had been broken that first day he’d gone missing. And every single day that followed.