The Secret of Crickley Hall

by James Herbert

  Percy quickly appraised the situation. ‘Then we’ll have to walk round it, sir. Not too far to Crickley Hall from here; we’ll make it all right.’

  ‘You still wanna’ go there? You don’t have to, you know – I can take care of things myself.’ He was only thinking of the old man’s stamina. It was still along way to Crickley Hall no matter what Percy said.

  ‘No, I wants to go with yer. Set my mind at rest, like.’ He seemed resolute.

  Gabe clamped Percy’s upper arm. ‘Okay. I appreciate it. Let’s find a way past the goddamn tree.’

  He leaned into the Range Rover and switched off the engine and lights, but turned on the hazard lights to warn any approaching vehicles on that side of the lane. Together, bending into the gale, Gabe and Percy headed towards the charred tree stump on the grass verge. Without the car, it was going to be one hell of a journey, thought Gabe.

  69: ESCAPE

  Never had Eve seen a personality change so fast. One moment Pyke was striding towards her and Lili, bringing Loren with him, his limp hardly evident as he avoided the puddles, only friendly curiosity in his eyes (he had been regarding the psychic), the next his face was screwed up into a snarl, nothing but fury now blazing from those same but frighteningly different eyes.

  His slight limp was no impediment as he marched towards Lili, raising his thick stick over his head as he came.

  Lili took a step backwards and lifted her arms to defend herself from the blow that surely would follow. Loren froze, her complexion paling, her mouth open in consternation.

  ‘Don’t—’ Eve began to say, but Lili screamed, drowning the next words, the sound shrilling through the great hall.

  Pyke – Maurice Stafford? Lili had said he was Maurice Stafford! – barely paused, the walking stick quivering at the end of its backward arc, about to come crashing down. His face was a mask of sheer hatred and wrath, as if the exposure had revealed his true nature.

  Lili kept her arms high to protect herself, her terrified scream reaching its peak.

  All the lights flickered.

  They went out.

  Shocked, and with Lili’s scream ringing in her ears, Eve reached out for Loren in the darkness. Just before the lights went off she had seen Pyke’s walking stick begin its descent, then heard it strike something – she knew it was Lili, for the scream turned into a howl of pain. Footsteps clacked on the stone floor, but Eve could see nothing until the lightning flashed outside and the grand hall was illuminated by a stark silver-white coruscation that came through the tall window over the stairs.

  In the sequence of still-lifes caused by the lightning’s strobing, Eve saw that Lili was retreating to the front door, was pulling it open, was rushing out, was a black silhouette against the flashing light that spilled through the portal.

  Lili had already begun to duck and hold up her arms to protect her head when all the lights flickered then died, only the absorbing thickness of her coat sleeves preventing serious damage to her right forearm when the stout cane struck. Her scream turned into a painful cry.

  Horror had gripped her the moment the man once known as Maurice Stafford had come striding purposefully towards her, the walking stick held aloft as a weapon, his face rendered ugly by its expression. She managed to recover enough to turn and run.

  Lightning lit up the hall as her panic drove her to the front door, her boots clacking on the flagstones, her right arm numbed by the blow and hanging down by her side, her left hand stretched before her. When her hand touched wood, her fingers scrabbled for the doorknob; she found it, twisted it, pulled the nail-studded door open and escaped into the storm-filled night.

  Almost blinded by the fierce stuttering light, she ran across the rain-sodden lawn, mortal dread of what she had left inside the house (and it was not only the limping man that caused this dread, for she had sensed other terrors lurking within those solid walls) driving her on. The wind seemed to contest her progress and she had to lean into it, her left hand raised palm outwards to keep the rain out of her eyes. Thunder boomed as the soft wet earth sucked at her boots with each stumbling stride and she cringed under its power.

  She failed to see the heavy, black seat of the swing as it hurtled towards her from the darkness. It struck her right temple, stunning her so badly that she fell.

  Lili lay there in the close-cropped grass with rain hammering at her outstretched body, the fingers of one hand curling into the muddy soil. She tried to lift her head, but it took too much effort.

  Lili passed out.

  70: EPICENTRE

  Eve reached into the darkness for Loren, but could barely see her own hand in front of her.

  ‘Loren!’ she hissed, but there was no response.

  The lights of the black iron chandelier high overhead suddenly came on, dimly at first, then seeming to catch, growing brighter. They dimmed again, as did all the other lights around Crickley Hall that were switched on. Brighter once more, then waning to a lacklustre but steady glow that threw shadows and created gloomy recesses around the hall and landing.

  Eve realized what had happened. Somewhere in the Hollow Bay area power lines had been struck by lightning or blown down by the gale – either way, electricity to homes in the locale, and probably the whole of the harbour village too, was out. Crickley Hall’s generator, the generator that Gabe had fixed and serviced only last Sunday, had kicked in and was now the power source for the house. The light was weak, barely adequate in fact, but it was better than total blackout.

  She saw the tall man – Pyke, Stafford, whatever his real name was! – standing by the front door which he had just slammed shut.

  He looked at Loren, who was standing frightened and disorientated a few feet away from her mother, then at Eve.

  ‘Your friend won’t get far,’ Pyke said in an unexcited, almost friendly, way. ‘Not on a night like this. And even if she does manage to find help – which I doubt very much; those people who’ve chosen to stay in the area will be locked inside their homes with barricades round their doors and windows – well, by then it will be too late.’

  Too late for what? Eve asked herself. She had stepped towards Loren and held out her hand again for her daughter to take. Loren’s hand was cold and shaking in her own.

  ‘Do you feel it, Eve?’ Pyke asked, his glittering eyes seeking out every corner of the vast room and even searching the high beamed ceiling. ‘The hall is the epicentre of the psychic activity. The spirits are gathering here, their vigour is almost palpable.’

  Pyke was blocking the front door. His coat and hat, which he had discarded earlier, were hanging on the rack by the door, but it was obvious he was not going to put them on and leave. Eve began to back away and Loren kept in step with her, regardless of the puddles they trod through. If they made a break for the kitchen to escape by its outer door, Pyke would cut them off in a few strides. He held his walking stick like a weapon.

  Eve had never been so afraid. Oh, she had suffered more than just fear since Cam had gone missing, but this was different. She knew that this was a dangerous situation and her fear was for herself and Loren – and Cally upstairs, of course – for the man at the door exuded menace. She had thought him so kindly, so mannerly, and now his eyes seemed to gleam with malice.

  Loren was squeezing her hand so tightly that it hurt. Eve fought to keep the nervousness from her voice.

  ‘What do you want from us, Mr Pyke?’ She had put the question mildly, her tone even, as if she might be enquiring of a grocer the price of tomatoes. Somehow she had to humour this man, get him to respond in a non-hostile way.

  ‘Dear woman, it’s what the house wants from me that’s the problem.’

  He moved away from the door, taking two steps towards them. Eve and Loren backed off even more, matching him step for step, their direction taking them towards the stairway.

  ‘I don’t understand, Mr Pyke.’ Humour him, humour him, Eve told herself. Why had he hurt Lili Peel? Just because she’d recognized who he was? But now they, sh
e and Loren, knew his true identity, so what would he do to them? And why did their knowing he was Maurice Stafford matter? What had Stafford done and, my God, why wasn’t he dead, drowned like the other evacuees?

  Her heel kicked the first step and she and Loren came to a halt.

  She prompted Pyke, who had not stopped advancing. ‘How can a house want something from you?’

  ‘By now, you’re fully aware that Crickley Hall is possessed, Eve.’

  Oh so friendly; his voice was so matter-of-fact and soothing. It was his eyes, those once so engaging eyes, that were deranged.

  ‘You told us there were no such things as ghosts,’ Eve said as she took the step with Loren, both of them moving backwards, their eyes never leaving Pyke’s.

  ‘No, I said in many cases there are perfectly natural explanations for what might be considered supernatural episodes or so-called manifestations. But – and I freely admit, they are in the minority – there sometimes are genuine hauntings that cannot be rationalized.’

  ‘The children – their spirits – they really are here?’ Moving as steadily as possible, Eve took the second step. Loren rose with her.

  ‘Of course they are!’

  Eve flinched at Pyke’s anger.

  ‘Can’t you feel their presence, woman? Can’t you see they’re all around us? My God, they’re almost visible.’

  And as Pyke said the words, Eve thought she saw something flit among the shadows of the room. Small, insubstantial shapes. Lighter shades of darkness.

  ‘But they aren’t alone.’ Pyke sounded perfectly reasonable once more as he limped towards Eve and Loren, now leaning heavily on his cane. ‘Their guardian is with them. Augustus Cribben. You might say he was Maurice Stafford’s lord and master.’

  Mother and daughter had discreetly risen another step.

  ‘Wasn’t Augustus Cribben in charge here during the last world war?’ Eve ventured warily. She wanted to keep Pyke distracted for the moment, afraid of the harm she was sure he meant to do them. She could see the insanity dancing in his eyes. ‘He was the children’s custodian and teacher, wasn’t he?’

  Her mouth was dry and she fought the urge to turn and run with Loren, to get to the bedroom where Cally slept and lock the door. Was there a key in the lock? Eve couldn’t remember.

  Pyke limped to a halt, his brown brogues in a puddle. His cane took some of his weight. ‘Augustus Cribben was more than that: he was a god to his sister and me; we revered him. But the other evacuees? Well, they were just afraid of him.’

  They were on the third step now; a few more and they would be on the little square landing at the turn of the stairs. That was when they’d make a break for it, Eve decided. She kept her voice steady, even though she wanted to scream and flee.

  ‘The children were afraid because he was cruel to them. Wasn’t that it?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Anger shared the insanity of his gaze and it made him even more frightening. ‘I suppose it was that old busy body, Percy Judd. Oh yes, I know he still keeps his job here as gardener and maintenance man. But he was always an outsider who liked to poke his nose into other people’s affairs. He was a rather stupid individual then and I’m sure the passing years have added nothing to his intellectual powers. Hah! He probably still wonders whatever became of his sweetheart Miss High-and-mighty Nancy Linnet. Well, Magda and I attended to her.’

  Eve dared to ask. You – you got rid of her?’

  ‘No need to be coy, Eve.’ The comity was back in his manner. She was a busybody too. We had to kill her, had no other choice really. We disposed of her body down the well.’

  They could no longer wait until they reached the turn in the stairs: Eve jerked her daughter’s hand and they both spun round as one and climbed as fast as they could.

  But Gordon Pyke was surprisingly swift for a man of his size and age – the thought occurred to Eve as she ran that he must be in his seventies! – and he sprang forward and adroitly caught Eve’s ankle with the hook of his walking stick. He yanked hard and she fell heavily against the next set of stairs, bringing Loren down with her. Eve grabbed at a rail as they slithered back down.

  ‘Mummy!’ Loren screeched, and Eve quickly put an arm round her as they sprawled there.

  ‘It’s all right, baby, it’s all right.’ Eve looked at Pyke, who had calmly sat down on the small landing, his right foot resting at an angle on the first step down, his left on the one below that. He laid his walking stick down behind him, its hooked end pointing at Eve. Lightning from outside lit up one side of his face as he looked their way and Eve thought his grin was the most evil grimace she had ever seen.

  He waited as thunder split the air and rolled away into the distance. When it was quiet again he spoke. ‘Please don’t worry yourself, Eve. It isn’t you I want.’

  In the poor, generator-powered light she saw his grin slip to a smile and his eyes had lost that manic gleam she was so afraid of. He seemed his old charming self again. But Eve drew up her left leg so that her foot was out of reach.

  Stretched out on the rain-sodden lawn, Lili murmured something that was not quite a word. The fingers of one of her hands had clenched, digging shallow grooves in the soil.

  It wasn’t exactly a dream she was having, it was more of an extrasensory perception that conveyed itself as if it were a dream.

  Thoughts, sights, came to her. She began to see what had happened to the evacuees at Crickley Hall in the month of October sixty-three years ago.

  ‘The little Jewish boy was the first of the children to go. You might say he was the cause of all their deaths. And the young teacher; she was partially to blame.’

  Gordon Pyke had leant back against the rail so that he faced Eve and Loren on the stairs. His walking stick was close to hand should mother and daughter attempt to escape up the stairs again.

  ‘Augustus and Magda Cribben hated the Jews, blamed them for the whole of World War Two, in fact,’ Pyke sniggered. They thought Hitler had got it about right – exterminate all Jews, with their global intrigues and secret cabals. I honestly believe the Cribbens hoped the Germans would win the war.’

  He gave a wry shake of his head and his thoughts lingered for a few moments.

  Then: Now what was the boy’s name? He was the youngest of the children. Oh yes, Stefan. Stefan Rosenberg. No, Stefan Rosenbaum, that was it. See how well I remember? It’s as if it was yesterday. God, how angry Augustus was when he found out the authorities had foisted a Jew on him. And how the boy suffered because of it.’

  Eve shivered and pulled Loren closer. Her daughter was trembling and seemed afraid to make a sound.

  Pyke continued in his mild-mannered way. Our guardian made a discovery about the boy one day. I should mention that Augustus was very ill at the time. He’d always suffered severe headaches, according to his sister, Magda, but a head injury during the Blitz had caused more and, apparently, irrevocable damage to his brain. At least, that was Magda’s opinion.

  ‘Augustus was going through one of his bad spells when the headaches were almost paralysing, and Stefan Rosenbaum had done something wrong – I forget precisely what it was; I think he’d wet his bed, something like that – and Augustus was about to punish him. In a rage, Augustus made the boy drop his trousers – this time the misdemeanour was serious enough to warrant a caning on bare flesh. When Stefan did so, Augustus saw that he hadn’t been circumcised. All Jewish males had to be circumcised, Augustus screamed. Magda pleaded with her brother, but this was the beginning of the madness. . .’

  Lili’s murmur became a groan. There were scenes being played out inside her head, like a dream but not a dream: it was a psychic vision. The event was in the past and it was shocking.

  A little boy. A little boy with dark hair and large frightened eyes. He is in the grip of a man who seems familiar to Lili. The man is wicked. And insane.

  He’s shaking the little boy, screaming at him, and the boy is wailing in terror, which only makes the man more angry and the shaking more
violent. There are other children around, but they are frightened too and so they run away to hide, to hide from the man whom Lili now recognizes from the old black-and-white photograph, the children’s guardian, the man Eve had called Augustus Cribben. He is picking up the howling boy whose trousers are bunched around his ankles. The man is taking the boy into a room where there are tables and benches set out like a schoolroom. He lays the boy on the main desk, the teacher’s desk, and tells the woman – the woman must be Magda Cribben, Lili realizes – to hold the boy there and wait.

  Augustus Cribben soon returns and Lili cries out in her semi-conscious trance, for in his hand he holds a gleaming cutthroat razor, no doubt the very one he uses himself for shaving.

  Magda Cribben brings up a hand to her throat and she pleads with her brother not to do this, that the authorities will find out if anything happens to the boy. But her brother is undeterred: he reaches for the boy’s tiny penis.

  To one side stands a tall boy, one of the orphans yet not one of them. There is an excited glint in his eyes.

  Cribben calls for him to help pin the dark-haired boy down and Maurice Stafford eagerly comes forward. He leans his strong upper body on the younger boy’s legs so that they are trapped, and his hand presses down on the little boy’s chest, holding him flat on his back against the table.

  Augustus slashes with the razor.

  But the cut is too hasty, too imprecise, too deep, and the blood spurts from the little boy’s penis . . .

  ‘Stefan bled and bled,’ Pyke went on and Eve felt nauseous. How could a man do that to a child? ‘But Augustus didn’t care. He tossed the severed flesh into the wastepaper bin and left the room as though anything else that happened was nothing to do with him.’

  Pyke stretched his left leg and forcefully rubbed his thigh as if to encourage circulation.

  ‘Magda did her best to save the boy, but the bleeding just wouldn’t stop. In his pain, Augustus had cut away too much of the penis itself, not just the foreskin.’