by Sarah Rayne
But I have to close my eyes, thought Imogen, and if I do, I can see not the dressing gown on the door but the door itself, and it isn’t a door into anywhere cosy and safe like Christopher Robin’s nursery, it’s the door into the dark world. And it’s still partly open. But this was such a terrible thought that she pushed it down and buried it at once. You’re supposed to be safe and sane, Imogen. If you start talking about creeping shadows slithering up out of fantasy worlds and doors opening up into evil forests, they really will put you in a padded cell!
She was just on the borderlands of genuine sleep when there was a sound outside her room. She did not immediately pay it any attention. It’s your stupid imagination again, Imogen. Doors into other worlds and’ bridges across to dream places . . . She was lying with her back to the door, and she was not even going to turn round to see . . .
And then the sound came again, and this time Imogen did turn round. The door of her room was being slowly inched open from the other side, and as the gap widened, a shaft of light from the dimly-lit corridor beyond slid across the floor. She was not immediately worried. This was a hospital of sorts and people came in and out all the time in hospitals. It was probably one of the nurses with something to be drunk or swallowed, or just to check her pulse or temperature. It might even be Leo Sterne, come to hear about her dream world.
No. Whoever was opening the door was certainly not Dr Sterne. Whoever it was was being much too furtive. Imogen propped herself up on one elbow to watch. There was another, different sound – something scuttling, something dragging one foot? – and fear began to well up. Imogen shrank back in the bed, clutching the sheets about her as if for protection. The door opened wider and standing there looking in at her was a grinning, drooling hunchback, its eyes glinting with red lust.
There was a moment when she thought he was not real. He’s come up out of the dark forest to get me! flashed frighteningly across her mind. It was followed, almost at once, by: don’t be stupid! It’s an intruder, someone who’s got out of one of the wards. Yell for help at the top of your voice!
Barely a heartbeat passed between these two thoughts, but in that time Snatcher Harris moved, loping across the room to the bed and clapping a hand smotheringly across her mouth. Imogen had drawn breath to scream, and the scream was choked. She struggled and fought but she was still infuriatingly weak from the long sleep. Harris had the advantage and he was stronger than he looked. He pinned her down on the bed and leaned over.
At any minute someone would come running. Imogen cast a frantic glance towards the door. Weren’t there night staff here? Wasn’t there an alarm bell? She could see the push button that Dr Sterne had indicated, but she could not reach it. Oh, blast you, let go of me, you disgusting creature! He was crooning to himself, not singing and not speaking but breathing rapidly with a dreadful wet, snuffling sound.
Different terror surfaced. He’s going to rape me! And with the thought, Imogen aimed a desperate blow at his face. He dodged her hand easily as if he had been expecting it, grinning down at her. His lips were scabby and his teeth were disproportionately tiny, but the inside of his mouth was red and wet so that it was like seeing too ripe fruit split and leak rotten juices. This was disgusting, and Imogen struggled all over again, anger mingling with the fear, because she was damned if she was going to let this revolting little creature frighten her and she was damned if he was going to rape her either! She brought her knee up sharply, jabbing him hard in the groin. He let out a guttural grunt and his eyes – nasty, mean little eyes – bulged for a moment. Triumph surged in Imogen – got you! – and with it a spurt of strength, but the stifling hand did not relax its pressure, and the creature dug one hand into a jacket pocket and produced a thick scarf which he twisted round her mouth. It tasted of dirty wool and dried spittle and it was very nearly worse than his hand had been.
He pushed her on to her front, placing a knee in the small of her back to keep her down, and tied the scarf behind her head. Then, bringing out a second scarf, he tied her hands together as well. His fingers lingered over her tumbled hair, and then over the uncovered skin of her arms and Imogen felt dizzy and sick. This was appalling. None of it could be happening. But Imogen knew it was real. She was awake this time. If he touches me anywhere else I’ll kick him again, she thought furiously. I’ll kick him anyway when I can get a bit freer.
But he gave her no chance. He bent over and, lifting her up with ease, carried her to the door. She felt the iron muscles of his arms and shoulders again, and there was a dreadful moment when she was pressed against the concave chest. Imogen twisted her head back and forth, trying to bite through the gag or at the very least dislodge it enough to scream. No good. The gag held, and so did the knotted scarf round her hands.
Her captor paused at the door, peering out, and then, nodding to himself as if satisfied that no one was about, he carried her out into the corridor.
Lights burned out here, but they were the deliberately dim lights that you saw in hospitals at night. They were like the bluish glow you sometimes saw on films about night trains – wagons-lits and the midnight express. It was cold, rather eerie light, but it was enough for the hunchback to see his way and it was enough for Imogen to see where they went – along a couple of passageways and across a wide hall with a shallow staircase. There was the lingering smell she remembered in Briar House: sick people and yesterday’s cooking.
Imogen was by now very frightened indeed, but she thought there would surely be a moment when she could get free. There would be a moment when she could tear away the gag and the scarf round her hands and yell for help. She would do it somehow, even if it meant she had to scratch the monstrous creature’s eyes out.
They went through an oak-panelled door leading off the large hall. Imogen was still fighting to get free and hampering her captor’s progress as much as possible, but she had the sudden impression of light shutting off, and of clustering darkness and dirt-crusted walls and floor. There was a stench of hopelessness and despair as well, and there was a sick unhappiness everywhere.
For a moment she was confused, because this was surely not part of Thornacre. Oh God, am I plunging into that cobwebby forest again after all? Is this the place at the black core where the slavering evil peered through the trees and rubbed its bony hands together?
As the hunchback went up a wide staircase with a scarred but beautiful oak banister, she caught sight of what looked like the remains of a printed notice. It was fixed to the wall and it was dim and age-spotted, but a shaft of moonlight lay across it and it was still readable.
. . . no attempts should be made to touch the Lunaticks, for although the Diet is extraordinary Good and Proper, yet they may be subject to Scurvy and Other Disease . . . the Lunaticks may not be viewed on Sundays . . .
Knowledge surfaced in a cold wave of terror, because even though Imogen had not been inside Thornacre for long – and for nearly all of that time she had been unconscious – she knew its history probably better than the people working here. None of the nurses had said anything, but Imogen knew about Thornacre, and she knew where the hunchback had brought her.
This was the haunted east wing. The place where the ghost was said to walk – Sybilla Campbell. Only she was once Sybilla Ingram, thought Imogen in horror. I don’t suppose anyone here knows that. But I know it. And I know that this was the place where the madness surfaced and swamped her, and where she finally died in lonely, raving desolation.
There was just time to realise this, and to feel the ancient emotions and the long-ago terror and shut-away despair that had left their imprint here as plainly as if their symbols had been carved into the stones and the bricks. Then the hunchback took her through to a smallish room with a stone floor and a deep, square, old-fashioned sink. A small grimy window was set above the sink, and next to it was a huge copper boiler nastily crusted with green verdigris around the waste pipe. Imogen thought it might be a disused scullery or an old wash house. Her captor put her down on the flo
or, which felt cold and rough through the thin stuff of her nightgown, and then stepped back. Imogen tensed. Was this the moment when he would spring on her? But he did not. He looked about him, gave a satisfied little nod, and went away. There was the sound of the key turning in the lock and then of dragging footsteps going away. No one could possibly have heard them. No one could have heard him bringing her here.
She was huddled against one wall, just beneath the window. She stayed quite still and listened to the old wing settle back into silence. There was an occasional creak as a floorboard or a roof joist expanded or contracted, and the faint rustling of trees outside the window. She brought her knees up to her chest and braced her back against the wall, levering herself upwards until she was standing.
And then somewhere quite close by, somewhere that might have been at the end of a corridor or maybe up a short flight of stairs, there was a sound that was not timbers expanding or trees sighing. It was the sound of a massive door being opened and clanging back against the wall with a dull echo. The impression of something heavy and iron-banded printed itself on Imogen’s mind. She shivered and pressed back into the concealing shadows. The hunchback returning?
She could see that beyond the window were the dark grounds of Thornacre. A rather horrid smell of clogged-up drains and mice and sour dishcloths wafted up from the sink beneath the window. Whoever was responsible for improving Thornacre either was not very efficient or had not got as far as this place.
Imogen was just trying to calculate if she could get herself on to the sink and break the window when she heard a sound that brought her heart lurching upwards and knocking against her ribs in sheer terror.
Somewhere quite close by several people were whispering.
It was the eeriest, most fearsome thing she had ever heard. To crouch helpless in the dark evil-smelling wash house and hear the whispering voices sent her heart thumping so wildly that for a second it almost blotted the sounds out altogether. Imogen took as many deep breaths as the gag allowed and fought to remain absolutely still and absolutely silent. She strained every nerve to listen.
And now she could make out isolated phrases. Things like, ‘We’re free, my dears . . .’ ‘We can leave . . .’ And then, ‘Let’s go this way . . .’ ‘But quietly so that no one hears us . . .’ There was a rather horrid sibilance as well, as if the whisperers might have lisping speech impediments, or as if the night stillness of Thornacre was picking up all the s sounds and giving them an echo, so that Imogen heard them as, ‘This-s-s way, my dears-s-s . . . Quietly s-s-so that no one hears-s-s . . .’ For some reason this was unspeakably sinister.
Whoever the whisperers were, they were coming nearer. They were creeping slowly and stealthily towards this room; she could make out heavy padding footsteps now, and harsh, laboured breathing.
‘This-s-s way . . . Into the darkness-s-s and away . . .’
It was impossible to avoid thinking that the dull, hollow, clanging door she had heard had been the door to some kind of prison being opened. He’s let them out, whatever they are, thought Imogen in panic. The hunchback has let something out – several somethings –and they’re coming towards me. Maybe they’re coming for me! Maybe the hunchback left me here for them. As a sacrifice? As a present?
The door was locked from the other side, and she could see nowhere that would hide her, not even a cupboard under the sink into which she could squeeze. But whoever the people were – she must keep remembering that they could only be people and nothing more sinister – she could not just wait for them to come in. They might be friendly and helpful; they might untie her and help her back to her own room and raise the alarm. But they might not. They might be in league with the hunchback. It had sounded, in fact, as if they were escaping themselves – ‘We’re free, my dears-s-s . . .’ It would have to be the window.
She surveyed it. It was small but it was not as small as all that. It was grimy with the ingrained dirt of decades and very cobwebby but the panes looked large enough to get through, which was all that mattered. If she could get up on to the sink, she might manage to lever herself on to the narrow sill and break the glass. With her hands? Oh God, no, she would never do it, not with her hands still tied. And her feet were bare and anyway she could not risk cutting them because she might need to run. Was there something in here she could use to break the glass? What about the bit of waste pipe protruding from the copper boiler? If it would unscrew, it would be exactly right.
The copper waste was so corroded that it refused to budge. Imogen, hampered by having her hands tied behind her back, struggled fruitlessly for what felt like an eternity. And then, without the least warning, it snapped clean off and she was so startled that she almost dropped it. All right; now for the window.
If the hunchback had tied her ankles together she could never have done it. But although it was a bit awkward not having her hands for balance, she swung first one leg and then the other up into the sink until she was perched awkwardly on the narrow wooden draining board. The sink was brown pitted earthenware, with rusting taps, and the smell was disgusting. There were spiders and beetles. Imogen felt her feet brush against the plughole and shuddered, and then caught the whispers again: ‘Through here, and then we’ll be s-s-safe . . .’ Get on with it, girl.
Smashing the glass was not going to be very easy; even using the copper pipe she would probably cut her hands quite badly and fragments of glass might have to be removed later on. But Imogen did not care if she had to be stitched up in fifty different places if it meant getting out before the whispery creatures reached her.
The scarf round her wrists gave unexpected protection. Her fingers were not very free but they were free enough for her to pull a piece of the cloth firmly over one hand. Here I go, thought Imogen, and lifting the pipe as far up as she could and tensing every muscle in her body, she cracked it hard against the glass. It shattered at once and Imogen thought it was not impossible that someone would hear it and come running. If she had been a housebreaker wanting to be silent and stealthy, the sound would no doubt have roused half of Thornacre and she would have been caught and hauled off to justice. But there were no welcome shouts and no friendly running feet, and if she had done anything at all she had probably let the whisperers know she was here. So you’ll have to move quickly, you’ll have to get out of here like a bat escaping hell.
Most of the glass seemed to have fallen outwards on to the ground outside, which was a mixed blessing because while it should mean she could get through without too much danger from the broken glass, she might land on it with her bare feet. Working more or less by guess, she swung the copper pipe twice more, and then twisted round to see how much of an escape hatch she had made. Yes, if she was careful she could get through. And quickly. Oh God, yes, she had to be very quick indeed. The creatures had heard the glass breaking, they had stopped dead and there was a moment of silence. But then the sounds reached her again, more clearly now.
‘What was-s-s that?’
‘Better find out.’
‘Better go and s-s-see, my dears-s-s.’
‘Look in there . . . No, in there.’
There was the sound of a door being stealthily opened and then another. They’re searching, thought Imogen in horror, and she flung herself forward to the window in a half-slither, half-crawl. The rough, old-fashioned drainer scraped her legs agonisingly and it felt as if a million splinters were jabbing into her flesh, but this did not matter any more than the broken glass mattered.
And then, ‘There’s-s-s s-s-someone in the old wash hous-s-se!’ said one of the voices and suddenly the voices were much nearer.
‘A girl! It’s-s-s a girl!’
‘How do you know?’
‘I s-s-smell s-s-scent!’
‘S-s-scent on the air, we s-s-smell it as-s-s well!’
The sibilance of this last remark hissed malignantly through the darkness, and Imogen felt a new fear send her heart pounding again because there was something impossibly siniste
r about that last remark; there was something terrifyingly macabre about creatures who could smell you. It smacked of things not quite human, and the fee-fi-fo-fum hunting cry of giants.
They were already at the door, Imogen could hear them scrabbling at the lock. Sobbing with panic and the effort to breathe through the horrible gag, she swung her legs through the window, praying she had knocked out enough glass and there was not much of a drop outside.
She was halfway through the jagged hole and spiders were scuttling everywhere and dropping into her hair and it was disgusting and repulsive and she would never feel clean again – but let me get out and let me get free.
She was bracing herself for the drop to the ground when the wash-house door was pushed open. Framed in the opening, silhouetted against the dim light of the passage behind was the most fearsome sight Imogen had ever seen: several huge-headed, huge-framed people with great meaty faces and overhanging brows and thatches of ragged hair. Huge. Giant-like . . .
Imogen gave another gasping sob and slid through the broken window. She landed on the ground with a breath-snatching thump.
Chapter Thirty-three
Getting Snatcher Harris to release the acromegaly patients as cover for Imogen’s abduction had been a master stroke. Thalia was not going to waste valuable energy or emotion on being pleased, and she was certainly not going to fall into the trap of complacency, but she thought that if she had searched for a hundred years she could not have found anything better suited to use as a diversion.
Leo Sterne had been evasive, but to anyone with even a shred of understanding the situation had been clear. To anyone who had listened carefully to local gossip and interposed the occasional shrewd question, it was very plain indeed that Thornacre still had its secrets. Thalia had looked up the word acromegaly, using the small but well-stocked library in Blackmere, which was one of the places she had used to establish her innocent and worthy persona here, and where she had become acquainted with the head librarian. The small reference section had yielded only a brief entry on acromegaly, but it had been clear enough. The word derived from the Greek: akron meaning topmost, and megas meaning large. The description of the disease was as Leo Sterne had said.
