Angela eyeballed the glass of vodka, but looked away. “Then perhaps we should go and see him.”
“Agreed,” said Jessica, necking back her drink. “We’ll go and see him now.”
The group stood up from the table and Jessica led them back out into the foyer. From the way the woman was walking, Angela could tell she was apprehensive. Her agitated gait was bordering on erratic. The alcohol in her system, so early in the morning, probably didn’t help.
“Are you okay, Miss Raymeady?” Angela asked her.
Jessica stopped in the hallway and faced the rest of them. “I’m just a bit worried. If you and Tim can’t help us, then I don’t know what to do. I’m at the end of my tether. I don’t mean to place any additional pressure on you both, but this may be my last chance before I go completely bonkers.” She tittered anxiously.
Tim placed a hand reassuringly on Jessica’s shoulder. It seemed like a genuine display of concern. “We will do whatever we can to help you, Ms Raymeady.”
Jessica wiped away a tear that had spilled down her cheek and laughed at herself. “God, look at me. I must look dreadful. Anyway, enough dawdling, and please call me Jessica.”
She led the group up the stairs to the first floor and took a left past a full-sized suit of armour. There was a coat of arms beside it, featuring a black hillside with a white wolf howling up at the moon. Above it, written in Latin, was: The laboUrer is worthy of his reward. Angela recognised the quote from Timothy, verse 18 and spoke it aloud.
“You speak Latin?” Frank asked, almost sounding impressed.
“Some,” said Angela. “I know my Bible verses at least.”
“The Raymeady family motto,” Jessica explained proudly. “My husband lived by it. Hard work equals reward.”
“What does the crest mean?” Tim asked.
“The wolf is an independent soul,” Jessica explained. “The moon guides it through the darkness. Our family is blessed with vision and independence.”
“Interesting,” said Angela. “I think my crest would be a Jack Daniels label.”
Tim guffawed.
“Okay, you two,” Frank said gruffly, unappreciative of the humour. “I hope you’re both ready. Samuel’s room is just up ahead.”
The door at the end of the hall was covered in stickers and hanging notices that read such things as: YOU KILLED KENNY and DESIGNATED FART ZONE. It was a typical bedroom door for a ten-year old child, but inside the exquisite Georgian mansion it seemed grossly out of place. On either side of the doorway were two magnificent bronze statues of four-winged cherubs firing bows into the air. Angela recalled that they were supposed to represent love and protection. “These statues are beautiful,” she commented, running a finger over their flawless surfaces. “There’s a painting above my bed that also features cherubs.”
“Thank you,” Jessica replied proudly. “Cherubs are supposed to be all seeing. The artist told me that to place them outside your door or over your bed is to have them watch over you and protect you.”
“Beautiful,” Angela said. “I once heard the very same thing.”
“Samuel likes to draw during the mornings,” Frank cut in with a voice that was somewhat ominous. “Some of his pictures can be a little disturbing, so be prepared. He may also start drawing pictures of us, which will be…unflattering. Try not to take offence.”
“Don’t worry,” said Tim. “Nothing a caricature could highlight that I don’t know about myself already.”
Frank stepped forward and opened the door. Jessica had seemed unable to do so herself. She remained at the back of the group while they stepped inside. The child’s bedroom was long and wide, cluttered from wall to wall with assorted toys and discarded clothing. The walls were plastered with pinned-up drawings and dirty handprints. An unmade bed centred the room. The sheets were grimy and wet.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” said a new voice from the back of the room. “I’m afraid housekeeping has declined somewhat since the staff all left. My dear mother tries her best, of course, but it simply never seems to get any cleaner in here. It’s quite bizarre.”
Angela peered over at the back of the room. She saw the pale, bony flesh of a topless young boy. Samuel was sitting at a desk and facing away from them. The knuckles of his spine bulged through his skin as if it were tissue paper. The smell of sweat was thick in the air like a musty fog.
“Samuel, I assume?” said Angela. “It’s good to meet you. How are you doing today?”
The boy did not turn around, but said, “I’ve been better, Angela, I won’t lie to you, but one cannot complain. There are people with burdens far beyond my own.”
Angela glanced back at the others, made eye contact with Frank. “How does he know my name?”
Frank shrugged. “I never told him.”
“Nor did I,” said Jessica.
Angela asked the boy directly. “How do you know my name, Samuel?”
The boy twisted his neck to look at her. His black eyes bulged like a rodent’s. He tapped a finger against his forehead and with a knowing smile said, “There’s someone in here that knows you.”
Angela felt a wave break in her stomach. “Who?”
The boy grinned wider. His teeth were yellow pegs set into brownish gums. “That’s for me to know. Why don’t you all take a seat? I’d relish the company.”
“You’re sure this kid is just ten?” Tim whispered behind her. “He sounds like Mr Darcy.”
“It’s one of the changes in him,” Frank explained. “Some of the doctors placed his mental age as that of a fully grown adult. They could not explain it.”
Angela took several steps forward and, for a fleeting moment, felt a buzzing in her head. It ended with a brief spell of dizziness which quickly passed. Afterwards she wondered if she’d imagined the feeling.
Samuel had turned away and was drawing something at his desk. The closer Angela got to him, the more she was horrified by the boy’s condition. She was rapidly considering reporting Miss Raymeady for neglect. The child’s body was little more than a flesh-strung skeleton; an unfed, unwashed little boy. I can’t let my disgust show right now, though. I need to pretend like I’m here to do a job.
“How long has this other person been with you, Samuel?” Angela asked the boy. “Is it just you and them, or are there more?”
“There’s just him and me. He came to visit me a short while ago and has been here ever since. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him now; so much have I gained from our newfound relationship. Funny how one can become so attached to new friends, don’t you think?”
“So you and he are friends?” Angela confirmed. “What does he do for you?”
Sammie smiled. “Oh, you know – this and that. He’s shown me delights I never knew of. Opened up doors I never knew existed. Taught me the world.”
Angela raised her eyebrow and seized upon something. “Doors? What do you mean?”
Sammie stood up, so suddenly that it made Angela flinch. “Don’t worry yourself about it, Angela, my dear,” he told her. “I’m sure you have many more important things to brood over than the ramblings of a ten-year-old boy. Here take this. I made it for you. And, please, call me Sammie.”
Angela walked up to the boy and took the sheet of paper. She turned it over and studied the crayoned image he had drawn for her.
Her eyes stretched wide and the picture fell from her hand. The image Sammie had drawn was straight out of her nightmares.
“I’m leaving,” said Angela.
CHAPTER SIX
Tim was confused by what had happened. He didn’t know what Sammie had drawn on the paper – Angela had taken the sketch with her – but whatever it was, it freaked the woman out in a big way. She’d fled the room as if a fire had started. Tim couldn’t say he blamed her. Sammie freaked him out, too.
After Angela had fled the room, Jessica sent Frank to retrieve her, leaving Tim standing in the room alone with the boy and his mother.
Jess
ica approached Sammie gingerly, almost like she feared him. Tim stayed back, examining the walls for anything that could help form a logical opinion on the boy’s behaviour. The kid was unnaturally smart, there was no denying that. Perhaps he was one of those savants, like Mozart or Rain Man. That could explain it. But there was little doubt, smart or not, that little Sammie was one disturbed mamajama.
The bedroom’s walls were plastered with paintings of monsters and scenes of bloody destruction. Tim could make out dragons, gargoyles, wolf-monsters, and many other bizarre creatures. There were also crayoned depictions of people: human bodies torn asunder and mutilated on spikes, severed fingers and hanging eyeballs. It was like standing inside an inmate’s cell at some high-security psych-ward, not a child’s bedroom.
“You shouldn’t be so rude, Jessica.” Sammie chastised his mother as if he were the authority figure in the room. “You haven’t introduced me to your new friend.”
Jessica turned around to peer at Tim and seemed embarrassed. “Y-you’re right, of course. Where are my manners? Sweetheart, this is Timothy Golding. He’s here to help Mommy with some things around the house.”
“What things?” Sammie asked. There was a sliver of aggression in his ten-year old voice.
“Just…things. You don’t need to worry.”
Tim decided to start his investigation. He asked his first question. “Sammie, could you tell me what you drew for Angela?”
Sammie grinned at him, shrugged his bony shoulders. “I just drew what my friend told me to. He wanted her to remember.”
Tim nodded, but didn’t understand at all. “Remember what?”
“Perhaps you should ask Angela. I would be remiss discussing other people’s business. Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll find time to draw something for you, too.”
Tim frowned but then decided to chuckle. “Funny, but that almost sounded like a threat.”
Sammie chuckled back at him. “Don’t be silly, Timothy. I’m just a child. What threat could I possibly be to you?”
That’s to be determined, Tim thought as he battled a growing feeling of anxiety. The negative emotions rose from Sammie in noxious waves. It made Tim feel sick, like breathing in petrol fumes. Other people may not have detected the malodour, but Tim most certainly did. Something was not right about this boy – in fact, something was very very wrong. But there would be some rational explanation, there always was, and Tim would find out what it was. He always did. Almost always.
“Do you mind if I went and had a quick word with Angela?” Tim asked Jessica. “Perhaps I can persuade her to stay.”
Jessica nodded enthusiastically. “If you could I would be most grateful.”
“I’ll try my best.” Tim left the woman alone with her son. To be honest, he was glad to get out of that room. It was getting hard to breathe through the bodily stench.
He headed back over to the main hall and quickly realised he didn’t even know where to find Angela. The house was vast and easy to get lost in, but he quickly had a thought that would help him. There was an intercom set into the wall by the foyer’s front doors and Tim dialled 904 on the keypad. Frank quickly picked up on the other end, no doubt answering from the handheld walkie-talkie Tim had seen clipped to his belt that morning. “Hey, Frank. I wanted to talk to Angela. Are you with her…? You are? Great. Where can I find you both…? Okay, I’ll see you there.”
Tim hurried up the stairs.
According to Frank, Angela was on the second floor in the Friedkin Suite. Tim had no idea where that was, but he was sure he could find it. The house was a labyrinth, but he was gradually gaining his bearings. The building was more or less a giant cube with four floors of several rooms. How Jessica could stand to live in such a voluminous place on her own, he did not know. Personally he would have gone crazy knocking around the mansion all by himself, even with a skeleton staff. Maybe she went crazy. She does seem a little on edge.
The Friedkin Suite was up ahead. Tim rapped his knuckles against the door and it quickly opened. Frank stood in the doorway, blocking the room, but Angela was nowhere to be seen.
“She won’t come out of the bathroom,” Frank explained, moving to let Tim inside.
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She was locked in there when I arrived. I haven’t managed to get her to come out and talk to me.”
“Okay. I’ll see if she’ll speak to me.”
Frank shrugged. “By all means. Ms Raymeady really would prefer it if you both stayed.”
Tim walked across the bedroom and stood outside the door to what was most likely an en suite bathroom. He tapped against the wood and tried to speak through it. “Angela? It’s Tim. I know we’ve only just met, but I was kind of hoping we could talk. To be honest, I think there may be something going on in this house and I would prefer not having to figure it out on my own. I’d like your help.”
There was silence.
Tim tried harder. “I…know there’s obviously something in your past that is making you want to run away right now – I have a past, too – but if you leave, then you’re just letting yourself down. If you run then your past is making a coward out of you. If you stay…well, then you’d have my thanks at the very least.
The door opened and Angela came outside. She’d obviously been crying. “You don’t know anything about me, or my past. Why are you so sure you want my help, anyway?”
“Because Sammie went out of his way to freak you out, and that means you know something about what’s going on – whether you realise it or not. I don’t even know how a ten-year-old boy can freak out a grown woman he’s just met, but I think it means he doesn’t want you here – which means that I do. I heard about your name being written in Sammie’s diary. There’s a conflict happening somewhere, because if Sammie summoned you, he certainly didn’t act like he wanted you here just now. Whatever is going on obviously involves you, and I think we’ll have a better chance of figuring it out if you stay.”
“I can’t stay.”
“Look,” said Tim. “I don’t know what in that drawing, but you’re not alone. Whatever happens, I’ll have your back. Let’s figure things out and try to help this family. Besides, Frank told me we’re going to get paid a shitload of money, so what’s to even think about?”
Angela looked close to tears again, but she held them at bay. Finally, she nodded. “Frank…? Could you give us both a minute, please? If I’m going to stay here then I’d like to know a little more about the man offering to watch my back.”
Frank obliged her and left the room. Tim stepped over to the four-poster bed and perched on the end of it. He didn’t want to get too comfortable in someone else’s room. Angela pulled up a chair tucked beneath a vanity table and sat opposite him. It seemed like there were things she wanted to know, questions she needed to ask. Tim was ready for them, but not necessarily to answer truthfully.
“Why are you all doing this to me?” was her first enquiry.
Tim was confused. He hadn’t expected a question like that. “What do you mean? I’m as much in the dark about all this as you are. I didn’t even know anything about this situation until a couple days ago. I assumed I was being hired for a simple job at a married couple’s house, but then I realised it was all just a big setup to get me here.”
Angela frowned. “You were set up?”
Tim nodded. “Sort of. I suppose, in a way, it was more of an informal interview. Frank and some woman were posing as a family with “ghost” problems. They called me in to see whether or not I could see through their bullshit – to see if I was a hustler. I caught onto their scam in about thirty-seconds, so they brought me here.”
“Okay,” Angela said after remaining silent for a few moments. “Maybe you are in the dark as much as I am, but that doesn’t mean I trust them. They’re all up to something, and for some reason they’ve got their sights set on me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that they summoned me here and started playing
games with my head. That picture…. They must have looked into my past. I just don’t know the reason why.”
“What was in that picture that scared the heck out of you so badly?” Tim was dying to know, but he didn’t expect her to trust him enough yet. It appeared, however, that she was willing to give him the chance. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the slip of paper with Sammie’s drawing on it. Tim examined it. “Is this…is this you, here in the corner?”
Angela nodded and Tim looked a little closer. The childish artwork depicted the interior of a Christian church, complete with alter and oversized crucifix. Tim assumed it was some place Angela had previously preached. It had blood-soaked walls, depicted by thick red crayon, and a crudely scrawled carpet of stickmen-bodies made up the bottom of the picture. In the corner of the church was a doodle representing Angela, complete with dog collar. Opposite her was a tall man with burning red eyes. He was holding a knife.
“What is this supposed to mean?” Tim asked. “It’s horrible. Are these bodies down there at the bottom? What does this have to do with you?”
“This drawing is a snapshot from my life,” Angela said. “That picture happened to me for real. I was involved in a church massacre.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” she said. “It was a parishioner named Charles Crippley. I was stationed on the isle of Jersey at the time. It was a dream position: big house, private island full of rich and generous parishioners. It was a cushy job. But I had one parishioner who was a bit of a handful.
“Charles Crippley?”
“Yes. He was a local farmer, a quiet man who kept to himself. Some people said he was mentally disabled, like a child in a man’s body. I have to admit he was strange, but I didn’t think he was unintelligent. He was more odd than stupid.”
“How was he odd?”
“He spoke to an imaginary friend, for one thing. Barley, he used to call him. Barley was his friend.”
“Just like Sammie says he has a friend?” Tim ran a hand through his brittle, ginger hair and wriggled his bony butt on the edge of the bed, trying to get comfortable. “That’s a coincidence I can’t say I like.”
The BIG Horror Pack 1 Page 4
