by Rosie Walker
‘Did you hear that?’ he asks.
They look at each other, eyes wide. Nothing moves.
No matter what made that noise, if there’s someone else inside this building with them, Thomas and Maggie must hide. They’ll be in so much trouble for trespassing, for breaking into private property. He knows that kids can’t go to jail, but there are other punishments for this kind of crime. They’re criminals. He feels a moment of frustration: Maggie has made him a criminal.
They need to hide.
Thomas drops, flattening himself to the stairs as much as he can, the treads digging into his tummy. He switches off the torch and clutches it in both hands.
His heart pounds in his chest and he tries to quieten and slow his breathing, but the harder he struggles to breathe slowly, the more air he seems to need.
‘Get down,’ he whispers. He shuffles towards the bannisters, where he can see down to the main entrance. His nose starts to run; he’s desperate to sniff or blow.
Maggie sees he’s lying down and copies him, looking confused.
‘I heard something,’ he whispers, although he’s not sure now if he imagined it or not. The air is thick with silence now, oozing into his ears like maple syrup.
Maggie’s face goes pale. ‘I think I did too,’ she says.
The children press their faces to the gritty wood, staring at each other. Maggie’s eyes are big and round, the whites glowing in the silvery moonlight. Their breathing is fast and ragged as they try desperately to be silent. Thomas covers his mouth with his hands. Dust from the stairs tickles his nose and he pinches his nostrils so he doesn’t sneeze again.
Slow footsteps echo from the hall below. Maggie’s hand grips onto Thomas’s arm; he can feel her shaking. ‘Is it a ghost?’ Her words are a barely audible whisper.
He shuffles closer to the edge of the stairs, where gaps between the railings give a view over the wide expanse of entrance hall. He peers down, pushing his face between the spindles. A figure crosses the hall, pausing every few steps.
A sneeze threatens to explode out of Thomas at any moment. He holds his breath.
The man is wearing a head torch strapped around his shaved head, the light obscuring his features. His skin shines in the moonlight.
Thomas continues to hold his breath as the man crosses the hall, disappearing out of sight down the corridor which Maggie and Thomas had walked along moments before. The sounds of echoing footsteps slowly fade, followed by a door creaking open and closed. Then there is silence. For a moment, Thomas and Maggie do not move.
Thomas slowly uncurls his fingers from around the stair spindles and turns his face to Maggie. She looks pale. He reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘It was a man.’
She nods. ‘What was he doing?’
Thomas shrugs. ‘I don’t know. He had a torch on his head.’
Maggie giggles. ‘What a weirdo! Maybe he’s stealing stuff. My mum said that’s pretty common in old buildings like this, that people see them as easy pickings. Like your—’ She stops talking, pulls her lips in tight. She leaves a silence for a moment before she carries on. ‘Let’s go see where he came from.’
‘What? No way. Let’s just go home.’
They descend the stairs, and Maggie finds a door to the right of the main staircase, standing slightly ajar. Thomas shines the torch inside, the weak beam illuminating a set of stairs disappearing downwards into darkness.
‘A basement or something,’ Maggie says.
Thomas looks down the corridor into which the guy just disappeared, and points after him. ‘He’s blocked our exit: that was our way out. We can’t go back that way, it’s where the man went.’
‘It doesn’t look like he’s coming back yet,’ says Maggie. She points down the steps into the basement. ‘Maybe we can get out this way and go home.’
‘I don’t know. It’s so dark down there.’
‘We’re armed.’ She pats her back pocket. ‘And we have a torch.’
He shakes his head.
‘There’s probably a way out down there. A fire exit or something.’
Thomas stands up straighter, frowning. He wants to be braver. But he also wants to get out of this building. ‘Come on then.’
Thomas goes first, shining the torch on the stairs by his feet so Maggie can see where to step. Maggie reaches forward and puts her hand on Thomas’s shoulder, reminding him of pictures of blind soldiers they saw in history class.
The air in the basement smells even more damp and cold than on the ground floor. The walls seem to be painted dark red, with pipes and cables running along the ceiling like a nest of snakes. Their footsteps echo as they walk, and somewhere far ahead they can hear the dripping of pipes.
The temperature drops as they descend, and Thomas shivers beneath his woollen jumper. He thinks he can hear Maggie’s teeth chattering. ‘You cold?’ he whispers.
Maggie shakes her head, hugging herself. ‘I’m fine.’
The corridor stretches out of sight in two directions, further than the beam can reach. To the right, illuminated by the torch light, is an old fire hose, beginning to uncoil. Shadows along the walls indicate where doorways into rooms and further corridors might be.
The silence feels heavy inside Thomas’s ears. ‘This way, I reckon.’ They turn right, Thomas shining the torch at their feet. ‘Don’t trip on the hose,’ he says as they pass.
They creep by closed doorways, most of them blocked off with rusting bars, like prison cells. They approach what appears to be a dead end, a door standing open to the side.
Behind him, Maggie’s footsteps stop.
Thomas slows and turns back, shining his torch down the tunnel. The light catches Maggie’s face, reflecting in the whites of her eyes. Her skinny arms hug her body as she shrinks into the wall. She looks like a hare caught in the headlights of a car.
He’s never seen Maggie look this afraid before. It’s contagious, and his heart begins to beat hard in his chest. ‘I don’t want to go much further. I don’t think there’s a way out this way.’
‘Me neither.’ says Maggie.
‘I’m not having fun any more,’ he whispers.
Thomas sees a tear slide down her cheek.
She raises her hand to shield her eyes from the torchlight. ‘We saw the guy leave. There’s no one down here but us.’ She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Thomas.
He lowers the beam. ‘Alright,’ he sighs, trying not to show his relief that they can leave without it being his decision. He looks down to the dark end of the tunnel. ‘Let’s go back. There’s probably a way out; there has to be. OK?’
Maggie nods, sniffing back the tears.
Thomas takes her hand and they turn to retrace their steps back the way they came.
As they turn, Thomas’s torchlight catches in an open doorway, illuminating a nearby room, and everything inside. Every horrific thing.
As soon as the light touches the walls, his grip on the torch loosens and it slips from his grasp. The torch smashes into pieces on the tiled floor and the light disappears.
Thomas squeezes his eyes closed, but the image he just saw will not disappear: the tiny room, dried blood pooled and clotted on the tiles, splattered up the walls, and a set of footprints trailing out and back along the tunnel down which Thomas and Maggie had just walked. And a body in a chair, its mouth a gaping hole and huge eyes wide open, wider than a normal human being.
Thomas is breathing too much, his face hot and sticky with sweat. He grips Maggie’s hand until she whimpers and pulls her hand from his.
‘What’s wrong? What is it? Where is the torch?’ asks Maggie, she crouches down to try to find the lost light.
‘No,’ he croaks, grabbing her under the arm and pulling her into a standing position. ‘Don’t. It’s gone.’
He hears her turn to him. He imagines her quizzical expression even in the darkness, her frown of non-understanding. She didn’t see what Thomas saw. She doesn’t know.
Maggie pokes him in the arm. ‘What did you see?’ she asks, quietly. She has stopped crying; he can hear it in her voice, but there is a tremor of fear in her words.
He shakes his head into the darkness. ‘It was nothing,’ he starts to say. Even though he doesn’t feel sad, he feels as if he might start to sob and he isn’t sure why. He swallows again, his mouth dry. ‘I’ll tell you later. We need to go now. I want to go home, too.’
But then there’s a groan from the room behind them. It’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it. His whole body freezes.
‘What was that?’ hisses Maggie.
The groan again, louder this time.
‘Thomas, what was that?’ her voice is shaking and he can feel that she’s about to run. She’s grabbed his hand with her own icy hands and is tugging him away down the corridor. But she didn’t see what he saw; she doesn’t know what she’s running from.
‘It’s not dead.’
Every instinct in Thomas’s body screams to run with Maggie, far far away. This isn’t a game any more. No ghost hunt, no exciting exploration of a derelict asylum. Terrible things have happened here, and someone dangerous is inside the building with them. There is blood everywhere. If Maggie and Thomas aren’t careful, they could be next and it will all be Thomas’s fault.
He should have said no, should have stuck to what he believed in and been good and done as he was told. He should be in bed right now, exactly where his mum thinks he is. He clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, but that’s even worse. Behind his eyelids it’s still thick blackness, but the images he’s just seen are burned on the inside of his eyelids.
He is desperate to run away. Instead, he grabs Maggie’s hand and pulls her towards him, whispers in her ear in the dark. ‘There’s someone in there, tied up. Still alive.’
‘Oh my God,’ she whispers back. She starts to pull his hand, trying to drag him away down the corridor. ‘Let’s go. Letsgoletsgo.’
Thomas resists her pull, even though his feet almost follow her. But he knows they can’t leave yet. They have to stay here, in the dark with a murderer. They have to stay and help this poor person, this nearly-dead body strapped into a chair.
‘We have to help, Maggie.’
She stops pulling for a moment, and then starts again. ‘I don’t care. We just need to get out of here.’
He doesn’t move. ‘No. This person needs us.’
Maggie keeps pulling, but a muffled voice cuts through the black like a knife through silk.
‘Please.’ It’s not much louder than a whisper, but it’s enough to stop Maggie dead. She doesn’t pull any more, letting her hand sit in Thomas’s.
‘Shit,’ she says.
‘Yeah,’ says Thomas.
‘Help me. Please,’ says the voice.
Zoe
They’re whispering in the corridor. She saw them before they dropped their torch and the light went out again. They were blurred, through the tears pooling in her taped-up eyes, but the outlines she glanced as they stood in the doorway were those of children.
The whispering stops. They’re deciding: do they rescue her? Do they save themselves?
Zoe feels like she’s having an out-of-body experience right now. She’s in so much pain that she’s almost numb. Her muscles and tendons scream against the restraints holding her to the chair, the straps digging into her skin, disrupting the flow of blood around the body. Her hands are freezing cold, the fingers prickling like pins and needles. Her bare feet are numb, toes touching the tiled floor.
The silence lengthens.
‘Help us,’ she whispers again, although quieter this time.
Her desperation has faded and she feels calm, rational. She must be in shock.
She can’t stop shaking, her kneecaps twitching.
They might have a chance, these children. If they run now and run fast, they might get away before the man returns to complete his task. They could call for help. If they can get out, he might never know they were there.
Then there’s a footstep. Just one.
And another, the sound of grit under the sole of a shoe.
One of the children is crossing the room towards her.
Then more footsteps: they’re both coming to her.
She takes a shaky breath combined with a sob, her lungs expanding to suck in oxygen. They’re going to help us. The calm restraint dissipates: it was an illusion; she needs to get out of here and she’ll do anything, enlist anyone to help.
‘My name’s Maggie,’ a voice whispers in her ear. The girl’s breath is warm against her cheek.
‘I’m Thomas,’ his voice is a little deeper, but still holds the brightness of childhood in the back of his throat. ‘We’re going to help you.’
She can’t see their faces. They smell of outside: wind and rain and leaves. They smell so fresh and alive, not like the dank murky smell of mould and mildew that has filled Zoe’s nostrils for what feels like days.
‘What’s your name?’ the boy asks.
One of them touches her hand, fingertips warm against her palm. The reassembled torch flickers on, shines near her face. She flinches away, unable to close her eyes against the sudden light.
‘Zoe,’ she croaks.
There’s a rustling, a whispering between the children. ‘The missing one,’ she hears one of them hiss. ‘The one Mum was talking about.’
She wishes they’d stop talking about her and help.
‘You’re tied up,’ the girl says. ‘Your wrists. Anywhere else?’
‘Shoulders and ankles,’ Zoe manages to mumble.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I have a knife.’ The zing of metal is loud as the girl unfolds her knife. ‘We’ll get you out of here in no time.’
As the blade touches the strap, there’s a loud clunk. The sound of footsteps bounces off the concrete walls, travelling towards them along the tunnel.
‘Someone’s coming,’ whispers the boy. His voice wobbles from somewhere deep in his throat. The torchlight dies.
‘It’s OK, it’s the woman,’ whispers Zoe. ‘She’s a prisoner too. She went to find a light so we can escape.’ Zoe opens her mouth to call the woman, and she realises she doesn’t know her fellow captive’s name. ‘I’ve found help,’ she calls, turning her head to the right where the woman was before the door opened and closed.
The footsteps move closer.
They’re slow. They drag on the ground, as if the person is carrying a heavy weight on their shoulders, struggling to lift each foot from the ground. There’s a rustle of fabric, dragging and crunching. Whoever it is, they’re looking at her across the room, two coal-black eyes twinkling at her. Her skin prickles with the sensation of being watched.
Zoe opens her lips, unsticking her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth. What’s the woman doing? Why isn’t she replying? It doesn’t make sense.
He must have got to her, returned in the darkness to capture the woman and tied her up just like Zoe. He’s probably lurking in the darkness, listening to them talk, knowing it’s all futile and he can kill them all at any moment.
The children are in danger too.
She’s so afraid, she feels like she’s drowning in it. She wants to cling to these two children like they’re the only thing keeping her afloat. But she can’t. She’ll pull them under the water with her.
Her throat rasps as she talks. ‘Run. Hide,’ she whispers to the children. ‘If he finds you, he will kill you.’
***
From the centre of the room, there’s the crunch of a cigarette lighter and the flash of sparks, but no flame ignites.
Again: crunch and sparks. No flame.
This time the lighter works, its
flame rises to meet the tip of a cigarette held between pursed lips. The fire lights up the face, and Zoe’s whole body freezes. She stops shivering as her damaged eyes strain to see the figure for the short moment it’s illuminated, before the lighter is extinguished.
She glimpses wild tangled hair, long to the waist. Unbrushed and clumping into dreadlocks. It’s not Paul. It’s the woman, she’s found a light. She looks about fifteen years older than Zoe’s mum: maybe late 50s, early 60s. Angry-red fingernail scratches score the woman’s cheeks, and dirt fills every pore on her face.
‘Oh, thank goodness. You’re alright,’ she calls in the darkness. ‘Do you have a candle?’
The lighter flicks again, illuminating bones jutting at every joint, the skeletal look of a prisoner kept in solitary confinement. Her knuckles are swollen, fingers gnarled like a much older person.
But something has changed. She’s not hunched and flinching. Despite her dishevelment and wildness, she has the height, poise and grace of an aging headmistress. Her sunken eyes are not the timid, unsure eyes of a captive. They’re steely, focused. The wild eyes of a predator.
Her lips suck at the cigarette, lungs groaning with the strain.
Zoe’s skin prickles, every cell jolts with electricity.
‘What’s happened?’ Zoe tries to ask, but all that leaves her mouth is a croak. Can this woman help her? What’s she doing, lighting a cigarette in the silence?
She stands still in the centre of the room, looking at Zoe.
It’s so dark, Zoe can barely see anything. But something about the woman’s stillness tells Zoe that the woman can see her, even with no light.
Zoe’s eyes sting, the tape on her eyelids prevents her blinking away the tears. Her eyes water so much, she can’t see anything now but the darkness. Not even an outline or a silhouette.
Footsteps advance into the room, still slow. The woman is in no rush. What’s going on? The smell is stronger now: it’s almost meaty, like raw beef mince.
Zoe tries not to turn away, breathes through her mouth. ‘Help me.’
Then, a fierce pain on Zoe’s torso, a stinging and burning. The cigarette, shoved into her skin.
