The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

Or at least, it's wearing his clothes. He's supposed to have gone away for a few days, he's supposed to have taken a taxi, but a body has come crashing down through the ceiling, landing on the carpet just ahead. The body is wearing Dad's clothes, and it looks to be his build, but the face has been completely gouged away, leaving only the heavily scratched skull with a few patches of meat still attached. Even as I write these words, I can feel a burning sensation in my chest, and a moment later I see the second body being pulled down through the hole in the ceiling, and to my horror I realize that it's definitely Rebecca.

  And something's on top of her.

  There's still lots of dust in the air, but I can just about make out a large, dark shape digging furiously at her face, scratching deep into her flesh and tearing away strips of meat. In fact, the more I stare, the more I realize that this creature seems to have long, sharp fingers that have begun to scratch into her skull. I don't know how to describe its shape, except that it's like a huge spider with a heavily hunched back, and it seems to have human legs and arms as well.

  “Mum!” Johnny screams, lunging at her.

  I grab his arm and pull him back.

  “She's dead!” I stammer. “We have to get help!”

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: THIS NEXT SECTION WAS VERY DIFFICULT TO DECIPHER. I'VE DONE MY BEST, BUT POLLY'S HANDWRITING GETS EXTREMELY MESSY AT TIMES.

  Turning, I start pulling him down the stairs, almost dropping my notebook in the process. I can barely write as I run and I have to wipe dust from the page. Finally we get down to the hallway and race to the front door, only to find that it's locked.

  “She must have the key!” I hiss. “Try the window!”

  I don't have my phone. I don't remember where I left it.

  Johnny seems too shocked to do anything, so I grab the hallway table and hold it up with my left hand, trying to smash the glass in the window. It doesn't work. I remember that Dad had all-new safety features installed and he never got around to getting spare copies of the keys cut for the rest of us. Unless we have a key to one of the doors, there's no way out of here.

  “She's not dead,” Johnny stammers, with tears in his eyes as he steps back against the wall. “She can't be dead.”

  “Where did she keep her keys?” I ask, trying not to panic. My pen is struggling to write, due to all the dust on the page, but I'm just about managing to keep going. “Johnny, this is important, please tell me she kept her keys downstairs!”

  I wait for an answer, but he's just looking toward the stairs. And now, slowly, his eyes are opening wider and wider, as if he can see something that I'm too afraid to turn and look at.

  “What is it?” he whispers. “What is that thing?”

  Something rushes at us.

  I pull him to one side and drag him to the door that leads down into the basement. Pulling the door shut, I slide the bolt across. Something's slamming against the wood from the other side and we're in total darkness. Whatever's out there, it knows where we are. It's scratching at the other side of the door, and I'm scratching my pen against the page even though I can't see a thing, and Johnny's whimpering as if he's badly hurt. I don't know what to do.

  Chapter Six

  As soon as I find the light-switch, I flick it on and to my relief a bulb flickers to life at the bottom of the wooden steps. I'm still writing, and fortunately I can see that even in the dark I was able to keep my hand-writing more or less legible. I guess practice makes perfect, although some of the lines are a little extra bunched together. The page looks almost completely black.

  Johnny's bleeding.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: THERE ARE ACTUALLY SMALL BLOOD SMEARS ON THESE PAGES. SAMPLES HAVE BEEN SENT TO THE LAB FOR ANAYLSIS.

  We're down at the bottom of the stairs now. I helped Johnny away from the door, but there's blood all over his neck and chest, and the only sound coming from his throat is a kind of helpless gasp. I don't know what's wrong, but I've settled him against the dusty concrete floor and I'm trying to find where he's hurt. There's a loud scratching sound coming from the door at the top of the stairs, but right now I have to focus on helping Johnny.

  This is all my fault.

  Fresh blood is pouring from a wound on his neck. There's a nasty, thick gash running straight across his voice-box, as if something sliced through the flesh. Pulling my cardigan off, I press it against the wound. I don't know what else to do, other than trying to keep as much blood inside his body as possible.

  “What is it?” he gasps, his voice sounding incredibly strained as he looks toward the stairs. “Is it coming after us?”

  “I didn't see it properly,” I tell him. “I bolted the door, but I think it's trying to scratch through.”

  “Did you see what it is?”

  “Not really. It's big, and dark, and it has lots of legs.”

  “Are you still writing in that stupid book?”

  “I have to,” I stammer, even as I write those words down. “You don't understand. If I stop, bad things happen. If I stop writing, that creature will get through the door.”

  “You were writing while we were running,” he continues. “You're insane. You could have run faster if...”

  His voice trails off. I continue to write for a moment, before turning and seeing that he looks very pale.

  “Johnny!” I shout. “Stay awake!”

  “It's him,” he whispers. “It has to be.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Mum told me last night,” he continues. “She and your dad didn't want you to know, but they found out...”

  He stares at me for a moment, and then slowly his eyes start to slip shut.

  “They didn't want me to know what?” I ask, nudging his shoulder. “Johnny, talk to me!”

  “Your uncle had the same thing wrong with him,” he whispers, opening his eyes again and looking up at me. “What was his name again? Oliver? He was crazy, just like you. Turns out it must run in families after all.”

  I shake my head.

  “It's true, Polly.”

  “No!” I say firmly, trying not to panic. “You're lying!”

  “They burned all his notebooks,” he continues. “Thousands of them. He'd been living alone for years before he died. Mum and your dad didn't want you to know, because they thought you'd get freaked out. They thought it didn't matter. But I think...”

  He turns and looks toward the stairs, and for a moment he seems to be listening to the scratching sound.

  “It's him,” he adds, his voice trailing off almost to silence. “It has to be!”

  “We're going to get out of here,” I tell him, even though I can still hear something scratching furiously at the basement door. I press the cardigan harder against Johnny's wound. “I swear, we're going to find a way out. We're going to be okay, as long as I keep writing. That's how I stop bad things happening.”

  “We can't go back up there.”

  “I know, but we'll figure something else out.” I suddenly think back to the gray powder I found earlier in the attic. I guess I can figure out now what must have happened to my uncle Oliver. Whatever this creature is, it must have scratched through his bones until they were nothing more than a pile of dust. Then it hid when the police were here, but it came back out after all this time. I can't even begin to understand what it wants. From the sound of its furious, constant scratching, it's almost as if this thing is obsessed.

  Dad's dead.

  Just writing those words sends a chill through my chest.

  Dad's dead.

  “I didn't do anything wrong,” I whisper, as tears well in my eyes. “I followed all the rules. I kept writing, I barely stopped. It should have been enough!”

  “What are you talking about?” Johnny asks. He tries to sit up, but he quickly slumps back down.

  “I did everything!” I whimper, still writing in the notebook even though I'm starting to think that there's no point. I have to wipe more tears away so that I can see properly. “I lied to you before. I didn't sta
rt this compulsion after my mother died. I had it before, but I kept it hidden from everyone. Then one day, I decided it was stupid, so I forced myself to stop. I really, really forced myself. Three hours later, the police came to tell us that Mum had died in a car crash. Ever since that day, I could never stop again. I don't know why, but when I write, people stay safe. When I stop, even briefly, people die!”

  “That's insane,” he replies. “You can't seriously believe that.”

  “It's true!” I hiss, quickly turning to the next page. “You don't understand. No-one understands. I don't even understand. But it's true.”

  “You're so screwed up, Polly. You're seriously out of your mind.”

  He tries to grab the notebook from my hands, but I manage to pull away just in time.

  “You have to stop!” he hisses.

  “I can't! I'm keeping us safe!”

  Even as I say those words, I'm writing them down. I want to tear the notebook to pieces, I want to toss it away and never write another word, but I can't bring myself to do any of that. Instead, I write these words, and then these, and then I write even more as I listen to the sound of the door getting scratched to pieces at the top of the stairs. Whatever that thing is, it's not through yet, but I doubt it'll take much longer. If I stop writing, we're dead.

  “Window,” Johnny gasps.

  I turn to him.

  “Window,” he says again, pointing past me.

  Looking over my shoulder, I see that he's right. At the very top of the far wall, there's a small window. My first reaction is that there's no way I could ever wriggle out through there, but after a moment I realize that I might actually have a chance.

  Now I'm over at the window, taking a closer look. Standing on tip-toes, resting the notebook against the wall as I continue to write, I can see that there's an ordinary old latch on the window's bottom edge. I guess Dad never got around to having a new lock attached here, and I can see grass against the other side of the pane. If I can wriggle up there and somehow drag Johnny with me, we can get out onto the lawn and then we can run. We're miles from anywhere, but if we can get to the road we'll have a chance.

  Reaching up, I fumble for a moment with the latch, and finally I manage to get it open. I feel a rush of cold night air blowing against my hand, and I tell myself that we can do this.

  “Okay,” I say, turning and heading back over to Johnny. I kneel next to him. I still need to figure out how I'm going to take him with me. “Can you walk? Can you stand, at least?”

  He's dead.

  I check his pulse, but there's nothing. His eyes are wide open, and when I pull the cardigan again from his neck I see that he lost a lot more blood than I realized. My hands are shaking as I write these words, but I know there's nothing else I can do for him.

  I also know I'm the only one left now.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: AGAIN, IT'S AS IF SOMEBODY CRIED ON THESE PAGES. SEVERAL PASSAGES ARE QUITE BADLY SMUDGED.

  “It's an astronaut pen,” I whisper, hoping that wherever he is now, he can hear me. “That's how it even writes when I'm holding it upside down. I get them in bulk from this website that sells stuff for astronauts.”

  I don't know why I told him that.

  Looking up the wooden stairs, I see to my horror that while the door is still just about holding, there are several gaps now in the wood. Whatever's on the other side, it's rapidly scratching through, almost as if it's obsessed and can't stop. I'm terrified, almost too terrified to move, but finally I get to my feet and take a step back, before realizing that if I don't get away from here, nobody will ever find out what happened.

  Dad, Rebecca, Johnny and I will end up like my uncle. We'll just be little piles of dust, overlooked by anyone who comes searching.

  And if I manage to get away, and if I keep writing and I don't stop even for a second, then maybe there'll be a miracle. Maybe Dad'll turn out to somehow be alive after all.

  Now I'm over by the wall, reaching up to grab the window's ledge. This would be easier if I stopped writing for a moment, but that's just a trap. I figure I can haul myself up. I know I can't afford to break the rules, so I'm writing these words as I take a firmer hold of the ledge and start pulling myself toward the window.

  I fell.

  I landed hard on the concrete, sending a jolt of pain up my spine, but I have to try again.

  I fell again. This time, I'm going to have to stop writing, just for a few seconds.

  I can't.

  I have to keep writing. And I have to be stronger.

  I'm through! I'm half out of the window, but I've basically managed to get out of the basement. It's a struggle to squeeze my hips through, and I had to stop writing for a few seconds, but I've almost made it. I'm just going to reach back and check if my jeans are caught on the latch. I should be able to keep writing at the same time.

  Chapter Seven

  I broke my hand and it hurts so much.

  I'm back in the basement, the lights just went off, and I think the creature broke through the door. I'm shivering and sobbing in the corner, hoping against hope that maybe this thing won't notice me, but I can already hear the wooden stairs creaking as something comes down here.

  It's coming for me.

  I did everything right, but it's still coming for me.

  I made it through the window, more or less. When I reached back, however, the notebook slipped from my hand and fell back into the basement. I told myself that I couldn't go for it, that I had to leave it behind, but my whole body seemed to freeze up and I felt certain that I'd die if I couldn't write. I suppose I wasn't thinking straight when I wriggled back through the window, and when I dropped down.

  My ankle crumpled as I landed, and I let out a cry of pain. What's worse, though, is that I fell forward and put all my weight on my left hand, and I felt the bone break. It hurts so much, as if something's burning in the marrow, and I know I can't possibly drag myself back up to the window. I could try using my right hand this time, but I need that hand to write, and I don't dare stop writing even for a moment.

  If I keep writing, I'll be safe.

  If I stop, that thing will get me.

  So even though I can hear it reaching the bottom of the stairs, I know the creature won't kill me, not so long as I keep writing. I'm staring ahead into the darkness, but all I can see is Johnny's body on the concrete floor, resting in a patch of moonlight. I let him down, it's my fault he died, just like it's my fault that Mum died all those years ago. Any time I stop writing, any time I'm weak, people get hurt.

  Something just knelt next to his body.

  Something large and dark, with long, sharp arms and lots of fingers.

  It's scratching at his dead face now. I want to look away, but I can't help staring as those black, razor-sharp tips slice through Johnny's flesh, digging the meat away and quickly exposing patches of bloodied bone. Whatever this thing is, it seems less interested in the fleshy parts of his body than in the bone itself, and now I can hear a scratching sound as it starts frantically digging into his skull.

  One of the fingers just caught the edge of Johnny's eye, ripping it open.

  Now there are thick scratches all over Johnny's skeletal face, and a small but growing pile of gray bone-dust is starting to form on the floor.

  This creature seems obsessed.

  I try to move my left hand, but the fingers are crunched to form a fist and I feel a sharp burst of pain. I've tried a couple of times to move my fingers now, but the pain is too intense. At least my right hand is okay, but I need that for writing. If I'm going to get out of here, I need to push through the pain and find a way to use my left hand.

  As I continue to write these words in my notebook, the creature keeps scratching furiously at Johnny's skull, eventually pulling away a chunk around the eye-socket. Still the fingertips continue to dig, pulling away chunks of brain matter. I want to scream, but I don't dare make a sound. My pen is scratching against the page, of course, but I can't help that and besides I
doubt the creature can hear.

  It's too focused on Johnny's body.

  I'm sobbing too. There are tear-stains on the page. I think that might be against a rule, so I lean back.

  Now that a large chunk of Johnny's skull has broken away, the creature is scratching through the brain itself, although its fingers seem to be catching now on the inside of the skull's base. The fingers are working so fast, they're almost a blur, but at this rate soon there'll be nothing left of Johnny's head.

  If somebody finds this notebook and reads it after I'm dead, please don't think that I was crazy and please don't hate me. I tried my best, I wrote as much as I could. I took two hour breaks to sleep at night, and maybe that's where I went wrong. Maybe I should have refused to sleep, maybe I should have forced myself to keep going regardless. I guess that's the mistake I made, and it explains why something awful is happening now. I was weak.

  I have to get out of here.

  I have to at least try.

  I should force myself up and climb up to the window again, but then I'd have to leave the notebook behind, and then something bad would happen. So long as I still have the notebook, I'm protected. I have to be. These are the rules I've lived by for so long, and they won't let me down now. I wish I could have saved everyone else, but at least I can get out of here and warn other people.

  I just have to keep writing until this thing goes away.

  Johnny's skull has mostly been ground down already, leaving a pile of bone-dust. The creature has moved onto his back, rapidly shredding his shirt and starting to rip away the flesh around his shoulders. Whatever it wants, it seems to be focused on the bones, and I'm starting to wince as I hear its fingertips grinding through Johnny's left shoulder-blade. As it reaches the area around the lungs, the creature starts sending a spray of blood across the concrete floor, almost hitting me, but I pull my feet closer to make sure that I don't get splattered.

  Maybe it hasn't even noticed me.

  I was right, then. The writing ritual will keep me safe. I was right all those years ago, when I was a little girl and it first entered my head that constant writing would make everything okay. If I'd kept writing on that day when I was just 11 years old, Mum would never have died. Maybe tonight I took too many brief breaks, just a few seconds at a time, and I slept too often and that was enough to let bad things happen to Rebecca and Dad and Johnny. I have to write faster and harder, and I can't stop even for a moment. After I get out of here, I have to find a way to never sleep.