by Gary Fry
“It looks as if someone’s climbed out,” he said, pointing at handprints in the churned-up banking beneath them. “And more than one…er, person.”
Melanie hadn’t cared for his hesitation, because she’d just spotted what he referred to. Although there were many imprints of fingers in the mud—all clustered in groups of four—there was no sign of any thumbs.
How many people had tugged themselves free of the water, and how recently had this occurred? Maybe it was the same group who’d added graffiti to the ancient stones in the hills. But who other than maniacs would swim in such a turgid lake?
The kind of maniacs who’d also kill…
Melanie stood, yanking Carl to his feet. She’d just remembered what he’d said earlier—“I just saw something long and horrid slide across the top and then duck back in…”—and didn’t wish to stay here any longer.
“Come on, Carl, let’s go and get something to eat.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. Can we have burgers?”
He’d clearly failed to forge a connection between all the things they’d observed since leaving the bungalow. Melanie ought to be grateful for that, at least.
“Yes, I’m sure we can. Now let’s go.”
As they moved away, Melanie felt that someone was watching them, as if from some proximate hidey-hole…But the only likely location was the abandoned house beside the lake. She wouldn’t turn to look that way, however. The whitish figure at an upper window she’d noticed in her peripheral vision was almost certainly a reflection of cloud amassing overhead.
Shadows tracked them as they headed down the alley leading back to the grove. It was as if someone—or perhaps something—was in pursuit, their footfalls as silent as hair falling…But Melanie was being ridiculous. Only a persistent dripping noise from somewhere behind maintained her haste, and after passing their car and reaching the bungalow, she seized upon a humdrum observation: the property’s front door was locked.
Anthony must have gone out, just as he’d suggested earlier. Indeed, after using the spare key to access the property and telling Carl to remove his dirty footwear and wipe the dog’s paws, Melanie found a note on the hallway table.
Popped out to the village, it read in her husband’s untidy handwriting. Back soonest. Love, A.
He hadn’t mentioned the police, and so he must have gone alone. Melanie’s first thought was to hope that Anthony was warming to the prospect of living in Deepvale. This was followed by several troubling questions, one concerning how he’d locked the front door without any keys…But that was secondary to a more pressing enquiry.
What the hell was going on in this strange little village?
NINE
By the time Anthony reached the high street, a number of fond recollections had returned to him. Here was the park in which he and his childhood friends, including Simon, had rode their BMXs, until older people playing bowls there had complained to the councillor who’d run a nearby greengrocer’s and they’d been banned. Anthony smiled as he passed innumerable shops, each selling the confections and curios that attracted a modest number of day-trippers; few appeared dissimilar from all those years ago.
He hadn’t spent much time in the village after his brother had gone missing. The place he’d visited most often was the public library, where Andy and Paul had attended art and music lessons respectively. Anthony had studied books about science, while in another room Lisa had written prolifically in a notebook, developing the literary skills that had served her well since.
Such fine days, he reflected…Nevertheless, a tangible gloom accompanied these memories, and that was what he hoped to eliminate today.
After reaching the lane in which the local historian lived, Anthony hesitated, trying to look inconspicuous in front of two aged women chatting over a wall dividing the front yards of their terraced homes. He wondered whether they’d recognise him, whether they’d be pleased to hear how well he’d done since leaving Deepvale…But both appeared standoffish, like many people he and friends had evaded as children, not least because there’d been a school rumour that the village was a nest of witches.
Children believed most things, of course, but while moving on, Anthony wondered what separated him now from such foolish speculation. In short, what did he intend to ask Larry Cole?
After reaching his destination, he strolled up the short path and tried to think of nothing at all until his knock at the front door had summoned someone inside.
Suman…
Again, this name sounded in his head, like a breeze from the moors…But then he was forced to turn on the spot. Someone had opened the door behind him and muttered a warm welcome that contrasted stridently with his uppity mood.
“Hello! You must be the chap who wants to pick my brains. Please, enter!”
The man, his voice high-pitched and excitable, was clearly eccentric; in Anthony’s experience, all independent scholars tended to be a little like this. After stepping inside the house, Anthony grew slightly unsettled, perhaps in response to a number of old photographs and portraits hanging in the hallway and then in a darkly decorated lounge.
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Mr. Cole,” Anthony said, trying to settle his nerves. “It’s appreciated.
“Think nothing of it,” the man replied. He was Anthony’s height, about five-ten, but maybe twenty years older, with thinning hair and no dress sense. His worn cords didn’t match his chequered shirt and cardigan, but he looked unconcerned about such trivial matters. “Although I fear we’re destined to be enemies if you insist in upholding the formal address.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The man smiled. “In other words, you must call me Larry, and I shall make free with your first name, my dear chap. Anthony, Larry; Larry, Anthony…And now we’ve been introduced, some tea mayhap?”
He’d known such colourful characters at university but had rarely taken to them as quickly as he had to this man.
“Why not?” Anthony replied, never one to put others to trouble. But the effort didn’t seem to bother his host at all.
“Splendid. Then I’ll be back in a fraction. Please feel free to avail yourself of seating. I can offer either a couch or the floor, and I’m quite certain which I’d take.”
With this mildly humorous comment, Larry fled the room and could soon be heard clattering crockery in the kitchen as a tap choked on water.
Anthony now had an opportunity to examine the décor more closely. Above an extinguished open fire hung a bird’s-eye photograph of Deepvale, all its secrets exposed for airborne entities to exploit…Anthony wondered where this interpretation had come from, but quickly looked elsewhere. On another wall, he noticed a map of the region, one clearly executed before the invention of modern geographical equipment; the land was depicted in purples and greens, and the buildings were amorphous blobs like…well, like the thing he’d spotted in the upper window of The Conjurer’s House last night. Finally, on top of a dark bureau, a little book was propped open on an ornate stand, its cover bearing the word MAGYCK.
“Do you prefer it black or white?”
Anthony jumped in response to the voice, but moments later realised that the homeowner had called from the kitchen, enquiring about how he drank his tea.
“Oh, just a dribble of milk, please, and no sugar,” Anthony yelled back and then sat on the couch, his mind still attempting to untangle a confusion of words and meanings.
“Grand! Here it comes,” he was told with less volume, and Larry soon returned, carrying a tray on which he’d perched two large mugs. “Now that we have lubrication,” he added, sitting in an armchair ready-made for the bachelor he almost certainly was, “you must fire away.”
Anthony didn’t know whether Larry had meant take his drink or explain what he’d come for, and so he did both at the same time. Hiding behind the rim of his cup, he sipped, swallowed, and then asked, “What do you know about The Conjurer’s House?”
“The building at the end of your par
ents’ grove? Forgive me, I should tell you that I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know either well, but I understand they were good people.” Larry took his drink from the tray he’d placed between them on the carpet. “As for that place—I’m guessing you followed the link on my website?”
“I did. But sorry, it didn’t tell me much I don’t already know.”
“Which is what?”
Anthony told Larry what he’d learned at school about Deepvale, about how the village had originated in the 1400s, with most of its housing erected at a similar period. After finishing, he gazed at the expert, fearful he’d got something wrong.
After only a brief pause, however, Larry replied, “Actually, there’s something I’d like to know.”
“Which is what?” Anthony felt as if they were playing a game, their interrogatory roles now reversed.
“Why are you so interested in the property? I mean, I know about your younger brother Simon and how he went missing in there. But…well, why wait fifteen years or however long it’s taken you to pursue this line of enquiry?” The historian took another sip from his drink. “Because that is why you’re curious, isn’t it, Ant?”
How did Larry know he was an “Ant” and not a “Tony?” The meeting had grown creepy. Perhaps there was some truth in the gossip about older generations of Deepvale possessing mystical powers…But that was when Anthony reached a rational explanation for Larry’s knowledge: “Ant” was how he’d signed off his email.
“I just need to know what the history of that place is,” he replied, with renewed calm. “It might help me make sense of things.”
Larry nodded, nursing his mug, and soon settled back into his seat.
“Fair enough, my boy,” he said, grinning as he prepared to go on. “I will tell you what I know. This’ll be a skeletal account, but I’m certain I’ll get all the bones in the right place.”
Anthony wasn’t taken with Larry’s metaphor, but was relieved that at last he was about to hear about the house that had invaded his dreams for too long. This might add up to nothing, but he’d never know until he’d considered the material, and so he remained perched on the couch with his drink, ready to listen attentively.
Then Larry began his account.
“Okay, as you’ve said, the property the locals know as The Conjurer’s House was constructed in about 1410, along with many other buildings in the village. Its first owners were farmers, tending the land around the lake alongside the dwelling. But in the Middle Ages, a curious incident closed down the property as a commercial enterprise. One winter evening, around this time of the year, all its cattle was mutilated and the owner mysteriously vanished.
“The next people to reside there were families—it’s a sizeable house—and this takes us through to the seventeenth century. No more notable events occurred for a while…well, none that have been officially recorded. Indeed, the incident I just mentioned, preserved only in local rumour, was ascribed to vicissitudes of the man who’d lived there rather than to the property itself.
“However, in the eighteenth century—and here we possess more detailed facts—a series of strange episodes frightened away many of the house’s tenants. Children complained of weird noises at night. Women experienced a number of random physical phenomena, including premature menstruation and bouts of sleepwalking. Pet dogs refused to approach the dwelling. No family stayed there for long, despite protestations from men, who seemed impervious to such disturbances. And so the place remained empty in the nineteenth century…when Peter Suman moved in.”
Anthony sat more upright on the couch. That name: Suman. He thought of his wife and son, and where they might be at the moment. And he was about to rise and leave before his host continued when he overruled these protective instincts. His family was surely in no danger. Larry had spoken quickly and concisely, and there’d never be a better opportunity of learning more about the history of that building. Anthony might be gone in another ten minutes. Would that make a difference to the safety of his wife and son? He very much doubted it. In any case, he was too compelled not to continue listening.
“Peter Suman was a strange man,” Larry explained, failing to observe Anthony’s private disquietude. “He was twenty-four when he bought the property, and also extremely ugly—luckily no photograph survives him. He vanished from the village at around the turn of the century, forty years after arriving…but not before stirring up a lot of controversy, not to mention local outrage.”
“Please go on,” Anthony said as the man paused to sip from his drink again.
Larry set aside the mug. “I do mean to. Are you sure you want to hear all this?”
“I couldn’t be more so.”
The historian raised his eyebrows, briefly quizzical, but then resumed his narrative.
“Various documents tell us that Peter Suman was an educated man—a graduate of Cambridge—but also deeply unhappy. He hadn’t got on well with his father, a Cumbrian man, and staff reports from that august institution reveal a troubled student who’d selected hard sciences—physics, chemistry, biology—and found each wanting. He exasperated tutors with complaints about the limits of such methods of investigation. He craved truth, and at that historical period—as in our own, I guess—this wasn’t available in a verifiable way. And so, after benefitting from his father’s death in the form of inheritance, he left the auspices of education and returned to the north. An only child, Peter was bequeathed sufficient funds to buy The Conjurer’s House, thus named because he now lived there.
“He wasn’t a welcome resident, mainly because his face was horribly scarred—disfigured, I guess is the polite way of describing him. But he revealed no desire to engage in community or romance. I think we can be thankful for this, and that he sired no offspring. What passion he possessed was focused on private preoccupations, carrying out a series of…experiments. He wanted to know life, you’ll recall, and as contemporary science could provide neither the tools nor theory to do so, he set about devising his own.
“During the time he spent in Deepvale, he turned that dwelling into a shrine to consciousness. Each room was designed to represent a facet of humanity. There was a music chamber, an art studio, and a writing study—invoking sound, vision, and language respectively. The cellar presumably played the role of the dank subconscious—this was at the time Freud was publishing his first works—and the attic, which housed a large telescope, was dedicated to humanity’s higher goals: the aspiration to know the source and nature of the universe…Oh yes, the man was, shall we say, quite crackers.”
“But what did he do?” asked Anthony, desperate for the tale to unfold, because he had so much he needed to connect up in his mind. “Please don’t keep me in suspense. What was…Suman up to?”
The historian noted the hesitation in his question; Anthony detected this in the man’s sharp eyes. But Larry soon spoke again.
“I’m just trying to convey the absurdity of his intentions.”
Anthony sensed his host withholding something, but then Larry turned away to reach for a shelf bearing innumerable books. After prising out the biggest tome with one thumb, he threw it across to Anthony.
“How appropriate,” the man said, alluding to the title Anthony read once he’d adjusted the hardback in his hands.
A Short History of the World by H. G. Wells.
“Please would you fan it open?” asked Larry, demonstrating the action with his hands, his thumbs gripping imaginary covers.
Anthony did as he’d been bidden, and the stiff pages were soon radiated in a neat semicircle.
“Now I want you to imagine that those fanned pages represent the temporal history of our world, each epoch divided by an appropriate space.” Larry allowed Anthony a moment to absorb this information, but then went quickly on with a sharp voice: “And now I want you to slam the book shut!”
Startled by the instruction, Anthony obeyed, and the covers clapped together with an escape of dust. He wondered where all this was leading; an
old-fashioned clock beside several ornaments on the mantelpiece revealed time getting on.
“Okay?” he asked, glancing at his informant. He might have even sounded rude as he added, “And?”
“Well, that’s what Peter Suman was trying to do,” Larry replied, his eyes bright and knowing. “He was attempting to collapse time. Or rather, he was intending to use Deepvale as an isolated pocket of reality in which he could conjure back the denizens of the Earth’s past. This, he assumed, would help him understand the origins of our humble planet. In short, he was seeking…”
But Larry needn’t finish; Anthony already had his next phrase in mind. After all, he’d used it himself the previous week, in his final lecture at university.
“…he was seeking the God’s-eye view,” he said, and didn’t flinch as the historian leaned forwards in his chair. “He wanted to perceive everything at the same time.”
“You know about this?”
“I’m a psychologist.”
“Ah…I see.”
There were other issues Anthony wished to pursue—something vague at the back of his mind about thumbs, and a lingering suspicion that Larry had withheld crucial information about Peter Suman—but that was when his responsibilities as a husband and father returned.
“Mr. Cole…sorry, I mean, Larry…I wonder if you’ll excuse me,” he said, standing and raiding his pocket for the packet of cigarettes he hadn’t even opened today. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave now, but…well, may I come back soon?”
“Of course, dear fellow. Anytime at all.”
Time wasn’t a word Anthony was particularly fond of at the moment; it triggered many convoluted thoughts. But then he outpaced these concerns by making for the exit, pursued by his creeping host.
