A Gathering of Ghosts

by David Haynes

  After a few minutes of searching, he pulled his hands out again. Apart from a thick layer of dust and grime, they were empty. He stared at the hole with disgust. The old bugger had probably got ten more holes hidden around the house to hide his riches in. He had another quick look under the bed and crawled out. He had the rest of the day to himself and he didn’t intend to spend it crawling through a mountain of dust. But what would he do? He had no friends, and knew very few people in the city besides he...

  The speaking tube whistled with piercing urgency.

  He stared at it. It hung limply with its cone touching the floor. He was sure he’d replaced it on the cradle last night, absolutely sure, and yet there it was, whistling like a steam train in the grey morning light. He reached for it and the whistling stopped immediately. He must have left the cellar door ajar and the draught had caused the noise. He slammed it angrily into the cradle and hurried out of the room.

  The pantry was empty save for a few dry biscuits and the remaining ham. They were slim pickings, but his belly grumbled loudly in protest so he stuffed them both into his mouth without giving it much thought. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was on the closed and locked cellar door. He kicked it and turned away. The house was so cold, the draught could have come from any number of places and yet the speaking tube hung limply from the wall like a dead snake. He stuffed the last strip of rancid ham into his mouth and looked out of the greasy kitchen window. Even if the window had been clean, there was little to see other than the shiny shoes of the few people who walked past. He focused on his face and rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning and the bristles were sharp.

  Why was the cone not on the cradle? After the harlot had said her piece, he remembered snatching it from her bony hands and hanging it back up. He turned and looked at it again. There was no need to re-hang it because there was no-one to talk to on the other end. He need never touch it again.

  Killing spare time had never been an issue for he was always employed in some task or other as directed by his father. Whether it be washing, cooking or fetching some trifle or another, there was always something to do. He rarely had the time to sit and contemplate, or just to stare absently into space. Yet now he had manufactured the precious commodity of time to spend on his own endeavours, he found he was bored and restless. He wandered about the house looking for a telltale sign of a safe or a panel cut into the boards where the stash would be. He found nothing except for the eternal bleakness of the house and that was most unpalatable. He could not recall a time when the parlour had been used as anything other than a store and the dining room had not seen or smelled the rare juices from a cut of beef for a decade. The house was a grey and lifeless shell in which he had been imprisoned for the last ten years.

  He lifted the foetid sheets from the deathbed and twisted them into a sweaty rope. He did the same with the blankets and pillow covers. They would burn with ease for the sweat and oil from a glutton’s slumber was ingrained into their very fibres. He hurled them to the side and dressed the bed in clean sheets. It would soon be night again and he would not spend it inhaling his father’s vile and poisonous stench.

  “John,” a whispering hiss came from behind him.

  He jumped and turned rapidly. “Who’s there?” The words were out before his eyes had time to focus. It was a foolish question, he knew, but it was an obvious reaction. The bedroom was empty, of course. He turned back to his task. “Damn house.”

  He stopped. Was the tube once again sitting in the cradle? He turned slowly and swallowed. There it was, where it always was, nestling neatly in position. Its snaking coils eased through the hole in the skirting and disappeared. Had he knocked it when startled just moments before? No, he would...

  The whistle pierced his thoughts as keenly as a dagger through his heart. He clutched at his chest trying to keep the organ from erupting through his ribcage, but the screeching harbinger did not abate. He took a step forward and swiped at the cone, sending it to crashing the floor. “Be quiet!” he roared and kicked it.

  As abruptly as it had begun so it ended, and once again the house was silent. It was not possible, yet the proof still rang in his ears as sharply as it had done a few moments before. He stared at the tube for a minute, waiting for the terrible cacophony to begin again. When he was satisfied it was over, he knelt and took the cone in his hands. He was anxious about finding the money, that was all. That and being alone all day had put him on edge and caused his mind to start conjuring up imaginary voices. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. He put the cone to his mouth.

  “Have you come to tease me, as I teased you, father?” He put the cone to his ear, still smiling.

  “Yesssss.”

  John dropped the cone immediately and squealed. His hands flew up to his ears. He knew he could not snatch away the depraved sound of his father’s voice and he could not un-hear it, but his mind could think of nothing else to do.

  Laughter snaked about the room and coiled itself around his neck, forcing him to gasp for breath. This was not happening. It could not be happening. John felt bile laced with rancid ham rise in his throat.

  “You are dead, you cannot torment me!” He shouted the words yet they carried no strength, for it had deserted him at the sound of his father’s grim voice.

  He had to move but he could not take his eyes from the speaking tube, lest his father drifted from it like a demented genie. He sunk his teeth into his tongue, sending a ripple of pain and a trickle of blood through his mouth. The shock galvanised him immediately and he closed his eyes. He only had to sidle out of the room to be free again; to be away from the man who he had thought dead and gone forever.

  He took the stairs two at a time, staggering and almost falling the last few. He looked into the kitchen and saw the speaking tube hanging where he had left it, before turning into the dismal parlour. He seldom ventured in for it was a barren and depressing room. Yet that suited him at this very moment for he did not want company, especially that of a loathsome and dead father.

  He lit a lamp and walked to the fireplace where a collection of dusty, framed photographs had been displayed. He had stared at the photograph of his mother for hours as a child, wishing her to talk to him, willing her to shower him with affection, but she remained silent and simply stared back at him with determined eyes. He took the gold frame in his hands and wiped away the dust. There she was again. Her eyes still bore the soulless gaze of a corpse. Around her neck sat an expensive looking pearl necklace. The stones clung to her throat like freshly wept tears.

  “Tell me he was lying, mother, please tell me.”

  From the kitchen he heard a faint snigger.

  “You left me alone with him. Why?”

  Another childish giggle drifted from the kitchen but it was stronger this time.

  “Why won’t you talk to me? Damn you. Why won’t you ever speak!” He was suddenly furious with her. “Whore!” he shouted as loud as he could and hurled the frame at the wall. The sound of breaking glass accompanied the echo of his obscenity.

  He stared at the broken glass and the broken frame. He could remember a bookcase sitting along that wall. As a child, he had practised his reading by tracing the titles on the leather spines. The books and the bookcase had long gone but the shadow of its former lodging had not.

  He took a step forward and jumped onto the boards; they rocked slightly under his weight. His spirits rose as he dropped to his knees and searched for a gap to sink his fingers into. Close to the skirting board he found an indentation wide enough for his fingers to work into. In the void beneath the boards, his finger wriggled frantically in the cold and dark as he tried to find leverage. He winced as the rough wood scraped the skin from his knuckles and left splinters deep within his flesh. It was worth the pain though, for he knew this was where the old man’s wealth was hidden. Soon he would leave the house a rich man.

  Finally, he heaved with all his strength and fell back. He was back on his feet in an in
stant and pulled at the next floorboard along. Soon the perfect square, which had been expertly cut into the floor, was revealed. He grabbed the lamp and stared in. A large black box lay before him.

  He looked over his shoulder as if someone might discover him at any moment.

  “You’re not laughing now, are you?”

  Silence greeted him.

  John laughed and grabbed the metal handle, hauling the box into the light. It was surprisingly light but if it was filled with bank notes and not coins, that was as it should be. A crude lock had been attached the front but one blow from his greasy boot sent it flying into the photograph of his mother.

  He paused for a moment, took a deep breath then lifted the lid. At first he thought he was staring into the void for all that lay before him was darkness. He plunged his hands into the box and scratched around its base.

  “Nothing?” he whispered.

  Stifled laughter echoed through the house. “Nothing, John. Nothing.”

  He lifted the box and tipped it upside down. A strip of black silk fluttered into his lap like a crow’s feather.

  “You cannot do this. I deserve the money. Give it to me!” He threw the silk away and stood. He was not beaten yet. Not by a long stretch.

  He strode confidently into the kitchen and took the speaking tube in his hand. “You tell me where it is or I’ll...” What? What exactly could he do?

  “None for you.” The voice wriggled out of the tube. It was followed quickly by more laughter.

  “I am your son!” John screamed and hurled the brass cone at the wall. It bounced back and struck him in the face. “I am your son!” he yelled again, “I deserve it!”

  “I shall see you in hell, John. They will come for you as they came for me. But do not worry for I shall be waiting for you, with your mother.”

  The last word seemed to last for an eternity as it circled about the room and married with the sound of a woman’s laugh.

  John covered his mouth. He wanted to scream, not in terror but in frustration. The matter of inheritance had never been discussed but it was commonly understood that a son should fall into his father’s estate when he died. It was the natural order.

  He stormed out of the kitchen and ran upstairs. He would turn the bedroom upside down if he had to, but he would find the inheritance if it was the last thing he did. He pulled the old wardrobe away from the wall and stood on the exposed floorboards. They were solid. He rifled through the clothes in the wardrobe until the stench of ammonia made him gag and still he had found nothing for his labours. The old man could not possibly have spent it all; it was impossible.

  The whistle blared and he ignored it, but he knew it would continue until he ripped the tube from the wall or answered it. He stared at it for a moment than walked over and grabbed it. He pulled at it with all his strength but it held fast. Somehow it was fastened within the wall itself.

  “I won’t listen to you anymore!” he roared and flung it away.

  Laughter greeted his anger. It was the laughter of a man and a woman. He grabbed the corner post of the bed in fury and tipped it over, sending the clean blankets and sheets into the fire. The corner post smashed into the tiled hearth, cracking it and sending shards of green enamel into the air like fireworks.

  He fell to his knees and watched as the sheets caught fire, giving a warm glow to the room. The flames licked at the wooden bed-frame, charring it instantly and sending fireflies scuttling onto the hearth.

  The hearth. Beneath the cracked tile was a dark shadow.

  He leapt to his feet and pushed the flaming bed away. He was oblivious to anything else for he had at last found what he had been searching for.

  “I have it!” he shouted with glee. “I have it, you miserable fool!”

  He pulled at the other tiles. He was as unconcerned about the blood leaking from his hands as he was about the flames searing the paint from the wall beside him.

  He pushed his hands into the hole and clutched a bundle of papers. They were bank notes; they had to be. He withdrew his bloody hands and opened the roll of papers. His heart sank immediately for they were not bank notes but legal papers. He shuffled through them quickly, throwing them one at a time at the fire. He reached the last one and paused. It was a birth certificate.

  He unrolled it carefully and read it aloud.

  “John Barker, born 18th May 1862. Mother, Nancy Barker, occupation none. Father unknown.”

  He gasped and clutched the mantelpiece to steady his legs. He was a bastard? He stared at the paper for a few moments. Was this true? Was this really true?

  How could he find out the truth...?

  He grabbed the speaking tube put it to his mouth. “Father? Mother? Is this true?”

  A vile shriek and a roar of laughter flew up the tube to greet him. “Of course it is! You did not think we were related, did you? You fool!” It was his father’s voice and then a female voice came to the fore.

  “Oh my poor John. Your old mum was a bit of a trollop, wasn’t she?”

  He recognised the voice immediately. It was the prostitute’s guttural tones.

  “It’s all lies!” he screamed and felt tears sting his eyes. “I am no bastard! I am a Barker and I will have my money!”

  He turned and for the first time saw the inferno which was devouring the other side of the room. It did not register that he was in danger for he had only one thing on his mind. He wished to destroy this vile tube which spilled lies and gave his father a voice from beyond the veil.

  He wrenched at the smouldering bedpost. The sensation and smell of his burning flesh went unfelt and ignored as he pulled it free and walked back to the source of his agonies.

  He heaved the post above his head and smashed it into the wall. It caused an indentation in the plaster but nothing more. He heaved it again and again until the wall was pitted with holes. The flames crept up the curtains and soon smoke started to gather in deathly clouds.

  Again and again he pounded. Again and again chunks of plaster fell onto the floorboards. He coughed and spluttered as the smoke reached him but he would not be beaten. He reached into the wall and tugged at the tube. It creaked and squealed as he pulled but it would not shift an inch. He clawed at the plaster with his fingers, breaking the laths, the ribs of the house, as they came away in his hands.

  “Come out!” he yelled and dragged the tube with all his might.

  He tumbled backward and grunted with delight as the tube finally gave way from whatever was anchoring it to the wall. A flame singed his neck and spurred him into action again. He jumped up and dragged the mass of tubing from the wall. It coiled itself around his feet in a deathly embrace. Finally almost all of it was loose, all of it except the brass cone from the kitchen which was still trapped behind the remaining plaster.

  He stepped out of the coil and plunged his hands into the heart of the house again. His fingers pushed through the laths, breaking them as he went and wriggled through the bony gaps in the ribcage.

  He paused. The wood had changed texture and was cold. The ribs were rounded and smooth. He withdrew his hands and smashed them into the plaster. A bloody blush coated the wall as his cuts were opened afresh.

  Terrible laughter issued from the coil. “Quite the trollop!” the prostitute laughed.

  John ignored the voice and pounded again until his arms stung with the exertion. The plaster was now cracked from floor to ceiling and he only had to pull it away from the wall.

  A tongue of flame licked the side of his face. “You are a bastard!” his father’s voice screamed as the tube was set alight.

  He pulled with all his might, sending a huge square of plaster tumbling to the floor.

  He shrieked but it was not the heat of the flames travelling along his skin which caused the reaction. His endeavours had revealed something else.

  “Mother?” he whispered.

  A sunken and leathery face stared back at him. Her mouth was agape and the brass cone was wedged between her teeth. There w
as little flesh left on her face but what was there was brown and rotten. He reached in and touched the pearls around her neck.

  “Mother!” he called. Beside the pearls, a crude wooden sign had been draped across her bosom:

  ‘HARLOT!’

  He had seen the penmanship before. It belonged to the man he had believed was his father.

  Flames reached into the hole and plucked at her hair and clothes. They were as dry as her bones and caught immediately. He tried to drag her free but the flames were now at his waist and his legs no longer felt like his own.

  He fell back and screamed as the flames annihilated them both. The brass cone fell from her mouth and rolled to his side.