by Gary Fry
“Peter…Suman…” came the sound, a chorus of children, their mouths masked by a soft substance. “God’s…eye…view…”
That was when Carl glanced inside the wardrobe.
He saw lots of short people standing in rows on each side, reaching farther back than where wooden panels should be and forming a makeshift tunnel. The space occupied by these entities didn’t exist, because the bathroom was behind the wall at the back. The creatures were about his height, but their features were smothered in strands of dank hair, which hung across their faces and flapped up at the mouths as the chant went on and on.
“Peter…Suman…God’s…eye…view…” There was a brief pause, as the figures drew a collective breath, and then added, “And…now…he’s…heeerrreee…”
The final word lingered, the way the music teacher at Carl’s Leeds school sometimes held on to a long note. This sound was horrible, but worse, something appeared to be moving between the coats of greasy hair each child wore. They raised their hands, and although Carl noticed each hand had four fingers and no thumb, his real terror arose when he spotted the figure struggling to form itself amid this forest of arms.
“That’s my daddy,” said Suman, directly into Carl’s left ear.
Then, thrusting through the swaying hair, a hideous entity shuddered into view.
It resembled a cloud of flies seeking to form a shape the size of a person. It jerked up from a crumpled posture, its head as fragmented as computer-game graphics and lashing over its fracturing shoulders. Then its body rose, and legs that appeared to be burning kicked out, sending smears of tiny dots rippling across an unseen floor. Light and power cavorted in this entity’s slipshod body, and after closing and reopening his eyes, Carl found himself staring at a ghastly old man.
Carl backed away. Suman prevented him from straying too far, but not for long, because then Carl thrust aside the boy’s hand and began scrambling towards the bedroom’s exit.
Moments later, all the manic activity behind him came to an end.
Hesitating with terror and intrigue, Carl turned to look, hoping it was over. But that was when his heart leapt in his chest.
A bunch of gnarled fingers, even older than Grandma’s and Granddad’s, gripped the edge of the wardrobe door. And then Carl heard this ancient figure speak.
“Hark, my lad! We have other business at present.” The voice was more gravelly than a fistful of stones flung against a wall. From inside the wardrobe, the figure was addressing his son. “We shall return soonest to tackle this stage of the experiment…”
Carl disliked the way the man had said “experiment”; it had made him cringe powerfully. But then Suman gazed at him, offering a sickly leer.
“You’ve been lucky on this occasion, dear nephew.” The boy climbed back inside the wardrobe, and before shutting himself inside, he added, “Something else has come up and we need to be elsewhere. Even…even we can’t be two places at the same time.”
Despite the hesitation in Suman’s comment, Carl didn’t wish to learn more. And then the wardrobe door slammed shut, killing all the light and the noise.
Carl felt deeply shaken and bewildered. But after pacing towards the wardrobe and drawing in a deep breath, he grasped the handles…and opened it again.
There was nothing inside except old clothes.
Nevertheless, Carl fled immediately to the lounge, where he found his mummy writing in a notepad. That was when Carl finally burst into tears, just before his daddy arrived home and the whole world seemed to shudder with glee.
PART TWO: THE GATHERING
SIXTEEN
When Ant Mallinson had called the previous evening, Paul Jenkins had been off his head on dope. This was why he’d agreed to return to Deepvale. Later, he’d suffered a rough night, his sleep facilitated by the pot he’d smoked, but also burdened by nightmares.
He thought the project on which he was working had much to do with this. The “rock symphony,” as he’d dubbed it, was coming along steadily. Its four movements possessed a funereal atmosphere, and he was now mired in composing the slow second section where his main theme—elaborated with major-key hope during the opening part—took a turn towards the morbid. This mood befitted the band that would perform the piece: The Cthulhooligans.
He’d befriended the other three members after leaving his native village in the late ’90s for Manchester, the “happening” place for music at that time. Much to the chagrin of his neighbours, he’d learned to play electric guitar as a teenager and practice had paid off. The group had formed under the guidance of their lead singer, Johnnie Parker, who liked reading fiction and had plucked their name from some weird tome or other. Following the likes of The Stone Roses, Happy Mondays and of course Oasis, they’d never hit the big time, but made a fair living running the indie circuit, and with their forthcoming composition hoped to clinch a major contract. Paul had usurped Johnnie as their creative force, writing songs by drawing on a talent he was unable to ascribe to anything other than genetic inheritance…or possibly stubborn will. It was certainly a troubling gift. But it had served him well, and the band even had groupies now.
When he stepped out of his small terraced house in Salford, a couple of young women on the street corner recognised him. They’d probably attended gigs he’d played at the local theatre, and although both were too shy or respectful of his privacy to approach, he’d certainly caught their eye. They giggled as he climbed into his shameful car, a rusting Mini he tried to pass off as kitschy rather than being all he could afford. But the future looked bright.
He hauled his luggage—including the acoustic guitar on which he intended to compose during the next few days—into the cramped rear seats, started the engine, and began the journey to Deepvale.
He’d travelled home only about twenty times since leaving eight years ago, with an A-level in music from the local school and little else but his preferred musical instrument. He’d called his folks this morning and they’d been delighted to hear about his plan to visit, even though Paul was uncertain of his motivations. It would be good to see them, of course; they’d always been supportive, encouraging and cheered by his modest success. His mum had played a CD of the band’s only album and claimed to have liked it, despite its gothic nature. Paul had always imagined this piece as the soundtrack to the greatest horror movie never made, something beyond either visual or literary imagination…Indeed, he sometimes believed that of all the arts, only music could hope to evoke such ineffable things.
He was presently bereft of influence, however. He hadn’t set down a note in days. Too many tempting substances interfered with the process, but despite a lapse last night, he’d been trying to lay off the dope and had even quit smoking.
The car cut though the city suburbs and then stole like an insect into vast countryside. From the tray beneath his handbrake, he plucked one of the lollies that served as a nicotine substitute. But in the context of all space around him, the action made him feel like a child again…and he found this disturbing. At least he’d made good time. He’d told his old mate Anthony Mallinson (whom he hadn’t seen since they were eighteen) he’d arrive late afternoon, and now daylight was declining inexorably. Paul didn’t want to occupy these narrow lanes in the dark for too long, and so he accelerated, crunching the brittle head of the sweet in his mouth like an ant underfoot.
He’d hoped the glories of the natural world might coax a chord or two, but as clouds shifted into deceptive shapes and the sun settled on a hazy horizon, nothing came to his overstrained mind. Perhaps he should play some music on the stereo, something mighty and sublime. He stooped to the glove compartment, unconcerned about his driving. Inside was a pair of driving gloves, the unseen thumbs folded inwards…For some reason, this image unsettled Paul but then he snatched up another lolly, sucking with needful haste. Moments later, he selected a CD, the one piece he could rely on to blow his mind: Beethoven’s Fifth.
In a much smaller way, this was the great work he was trying
to evoke in his ambitious rock symphony. He shoved the disc into the player and that dramatic motif was immediately driven into his ears. Fate knocking at the door, as one critic had memorably phrased it: da-da-da-daaa…Were there many people on Earth unfamiliar with this refrain? Paul knew that fifty years later, the Hungarian composer Franz Liszt would be credited with inventing the “transformation of theme” technique, but Paul believed the idea had been there for the taking in the truly great man’s pivotal masterpiece. This was a musical strategy Paul had tried to work into his untitled opus. His effort was relatively feeble, but in the grip of this titanic sound, he imagined himself capable of producing such awesome music. The surroundings helped, too: the rolling mass of moors he observed as he entered Yorkshire made him feel as if he’d escaped his body and viewed the planet from another perspective…or maybe from no perspective at all.
None of the other band members felt what he did, and Paul believed this was what separated him in terms of ability: the art he’d always responded to since…well, at least twelve years old. He’d switched from pop to classical early in life, but didn’t know why. His dad had often played Radio 3 in the car, and one day Paul had heard a Bach concerto for several harpsichords, which had intoxicated him. The following day, he’d visited the only shop in Deepvale that sold such music and bought a cassette with his pocket money. He recalled feeling as if someone was following him home—possibly one of the few thugs in the village—but after turning to look, there’d been nobody. He supposed he’d been embarrassed in case anyone taunted him about his newfound love of unfashionable music. Then, clutching the tape, he’d run up the grove, past The Conjurer’s House in which…poor little Simon Mallinson had gone missing.
As Paul neared the locality, many memories returned and not all were welcome. The symphony had just reached the end of its creeping scherzo. Paul had made the trip quickly, exceeding the speed limit almost all the way. As trees all around shielded sight of tumbling, windswept hills, Beethoven’s final movement was heralded with a blaze of trumpets. It was getting darker, too. Paul sucked more forcefully on the lolly, whose sugary form ought to have shrunk more than it had…Christ, he could use a smoke.
But he wouldn’t give in to temptation. He didn’t have any cigarettes anyway. As he raced on, shadows shifted in woodland to either side. He thought he spotted a figure shuffling among foliage, but after staring harder as the symphony roared and thumped, he made out only a shaggy bush that shouldn’t grow in such barren ground. After checking his rear-view mirror, however, he noticed it had gone. Could this have been a tramp dressed in shabby clothing, sheltering from the cold gusting against Paul’s windscreen?
The fourth movement rose to another crescendo, only to delay its climax with a reprise of the impish scherzo. Paul accelerated faster, desperate to reach his parents’ bungalow, and then later the party with old friends. He’d finally had enough of the lolly.
Feeling unaccountably nervous, he wound down his window. A creature as small as a child leapt from the right, but after gazing in that direction Paul spotted just windswept vegetation lurching his way. He laughed uneasily and tossed the moist stick through the window. He was usually conscientious about disposing litter, but on this occasion found himself not caring. And what did that imply about his attitude to his childhood home?
Deepvale had now appeared up ahead. The ancient village fitted well with the atmosphere induced by the symphony, which hurtled on to its incredible conclusion. Settling back to relax, Paul noticed further movement in the side mirror.
Had more tramps been loitering between the trees? It was too gloomy to say for certain, but after slowing the Mini, he watched as three dark shapes struggled out from undergrowth. They were too short to be adults, but which kids would wear such furry outfits? Each squatted to the place where Paul’s lolly had landed. If they were tramps, they must be very hungry to fight for a child’s confection. Perhaps they’d lacked nutrients during their early development. This would account for their stunted height, but how to make sense of the way they struggled to retrieve the sweet?
They must have their backs to him, because the parts of their heads Paul could see were covered in long hair. But this observation was overruled when he saw them snatching at the floor, as if trying to lift the lolly. Paul frowned. Why didn’t they simply pinch it between a finger and thumb, the way he now did with another of the things? He slipped this into his mouth and then returned his focus to the road ahead.
How weird, he thought, and immediately experienced something even worse.
With a frantic rioting of strings, the world around him shimmered.
The audible aspect of this experience was the symphony, charging to its lofty denouement. But Paul was unable to account for the visual illusion he’d witnessed. Was this a product of the weed he’d smoked the previous evening? Whatever the truth was, the view had just rippled, as if water had fallen in a sheet across his eyes. He pictured in his mind the lake at the foot of the grove towards which he was headed, but the recollection only heightened his disquiet. The wind buffeted his car with the strength of a far more powerful force. Then something resembling fire rendered his sight ineffably charred as he slowed the vehicle and stared at his native village.
The buildings—shops, church, village hall, and innumerable houses—looked unaltered, but what to make of the people he saw strolling around the ancient monument at Deepvale’s heart? Three roads ran away from this stone set in a roundabout, and along their crooked pavements, several people wandered, each dressed in dated garments. Was today some kind of Georgian gala? Had residents elected to celebrate the village’s recent heritage by donning fashions of the early nineteenth century? This was certainly the era their outfits were designed to invoke. A woman walked alone wearing a large black gown, while a man in a top hat and tails cut across a lane to Paul’s left.
Bizarre.
Beethoven’s Fifth had just made its final assault on the heavens. After glancing through his windscreen at the dimming sky, Paul saw clouds churning with malignant purpose. This was like a reflection of his mood, which had moved from incautious optimism to awe and fear. He looked around again, and the motion of his head smeared his surroundings, to such a degree that the world appeared to ripple anew.
Then he realised that what he’d seen was a hallucination. He’d often experienced these in the past, the sudden sight of what couldn’t be there, but looking so convincing that for one moment it all seemed true.
He’d stopped the car and waited at the kerb, gazing at the old village monument. It was a small standing stone boasting an archaic symbol whose meaning he’d never been aware of, even as a kid riding around it on his BMX with the gang he’d meet later today. Children rarely questioned such things, of course; they simply accepted reality as there.
He shook his head, wondering what had just happened to him. It had been like a scene from one of Lisa Robinson’s films. He’d seen a few of the movies his old friend had written and had been impressed, despite never having believed in the supernatural. He assumed there were rational explanations for all unusual phenomena. Maybe Ant, a psychologist now, could make sense of what he’d experienced…but for some worrying reason, Paul wasn’t convinced this was possible.
All these thoughts were halted when he spotted another vehicle idling in the lane directly opposite. Paul had recognised the driver immediately, a man bearing a bemused expression that probably resembled his own.
It was Andy Smith.
SEVENTEEN
Lisa Robinson had been delighted when Ant Mallinson had called yesterday, not only because she wanted to see her old friends again, but also because she thought a few days away would alleviate some of the pressure her boyfriend had been putting her under for months.
As she packed her laptop—on which she’d written no more than a paragraph for days—Ben came at her with a sullen bearing.
“What about your deadline?” he asked, but she knew this was Ben-speak for: I’m not really inte
rested in your work, but I think we ought to discuss the possibility of having a child soon.
Then she responded in Lisa-code: “I’m taking the screenplay with me. The file’s on my hard drive. I’ll get some work done out there.”
Ben was an accountant; he expected all life to be quantifiable, its books neatly balanced. “I thought it was due for submission next month,” he said, his voice no less sulky. “Will you have time to finish it?”
“For God’s sake, I’m only going for a few days. I haven’t seen my parents for nearly a year. Lighten up.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be unreasonable.”
Not much, you’re weren’t, Lisa thought, zipping up her travel case and exhaling with relief as she remembered that her lover had an important meeting in York tomorrow and couldn’t get away. She said nothing more, however…but this was insufficient to satisfy Ben.
“I was just concerned about…well, you know, as I’ve said lately…about time.”
And once again in Ben-speak: You’re twenty-seven, love, and although we still have years to go before you’re biologically unable to conceive, we do have our lifestyles to consider. Being a younger mum is easier—you could look after the lad (which, as you know, is what I’d prefer) while writing at home. Yours is a tricky market and there’s no guarantee you’ll always get meaty commissions. And as my wage is assured, we ought to build on that. Promotion at the office is always favourably bestowed upon “settled” types…Hey, we could even get married.
Lisa could read his mind all right. And who could ever resist such a proposal, its dimensions so cautiously worked through?
Suppressing private sarcasm, Lisa replied, “I’ll be fine. I just need a break. Maybe it’ll even help.”
Leaving him in the bedroom, she carried her luggage to the apartment’s exit. She had no wish to listen to his jealous rants, which followed more restrained strategies as surely as the sun pursued the moon each day. Yes, there’d be men at the party to which she’d been invited, but she considered all three more as brothers than potential partners.
