Conjure House

by Gary Fry

  But what was the use in trying to explain? Ben would never understand. Indeed, why did she even stay with him?

  “Good-bye,” she said, turning to watch him skulking, the way a puppy might track its master, using soulful eyes to get its way. But Lisa realised there were more complicated motivations for Ben’s creeping attentiveness. Maybe she had had enough; she’d find out for certain during the next few days.

  “Yeah, see you,” he replied, offering his face to kiss, but withholding one of his own; such an act would be a poor business move, after all.

  After pecking him with feigned affection, she quickly fled, the keys to her coupe clutched tightly in one hand.

  After driving beyond the impressive cathedral and heading for the A-roads out of the city, she began feeling guilty about her offhand treatment of Ben. He was a good man—faithful, hardworking, even a little vulnerable. She’d always found these characteristics endearing. The problem was that he just didn’t…fill her world. That was the only phrase she could think of to describe how she felt about her lover of five years. And wasn’t she was supposed to be a writer? She should be able to put any issue into words, but on this occasion, she’d failed. She’d learned recently that some experiences in life transcended language.

  Roadwork and traffic lights on streets west of York reminded her of her mental block. In addition to dialogue for her latest horror film, she needed to provide guidance for the special-effects crew, describing the creature she’d imagined besieging a small community. She was no artist and was unable draw the thing, but she also found it difficult picturing such an entity in her mind. What could be so terrifying? The production company refused to leave the monster to viewers’ imaginations, because such an approach was considered uncommercial. People needed to see the thing, but how could this be achieved without appearing corny?

  She should focus on only one problem at a time, however. Surely the less challenging task was getting the script right. Hitting the road that conveyed her north of Leeds to Deepvale, Lisa revisited the plot in her mind. It involved a bunch of children who confront a creature as kids and return as adults to overcome it. This was a hackneyed idea, but it was her gift for characterisation that had made her stuff successful. She’d always loved the horror genre, and didn’t know why. She recalled spending hours in the village library as young as eleven years old, reading every ghost story or tale of terror she could find, while also writing her own juvenilia. Such preparation and practice had served her well, and when a piece published in a small-press magazine had been read by an arriviste director, she’d been asked to write a screenplay based on it. And her career had begun from there.

  Her mind had wandered. It was only lately that she’d realised how autobiographical much of her fiction was. Although no hideous creatures of the kind she’d conjured had unsettled her childhood, there had been Simon Mallinson’s disappearance. Lisa supposed she and her friends would later reflect on this and more. She was looking forward to it, a break from the reality of humdrum life. But for an ill-defined reason, the prospect also set her on edge. Maybe what she needed was a blast of Shakespeare. She had a CD recording of King Lear in the stereo, which she’d yet to activate.

  But she didn’t do so immediately. She wanted to dwell a while on the past. She was sorry she hadn’t often visited her mum and dad during the nine years since she’d moved away to concentrate on projects. York had proved culture-friendly, its funding bodies conducive to artistic enterprise. Her parents had frequently travelled to see her and even enjoyed premieres of her work, even though these had clearly unsettled them. It was as if they’d always tacitly asked why their daughter had grown up with such dark predilections. But as Lisa herself was unable to answer this question, what chance had they? They were uncomplicated people and she loved them dearly; they’d brought her up well, without duress or crisis. Nevertheless, she inarguably possessed a macabre streak…and simply couldn’t understand why.

  Ben also found it difficult to appreciate her turn of mind, and Lisa thought he might even be embarrassed by her creative output. He inhabited such a “straight” world, in which colleagues had experienced the same privileged, middle-class background he had: public school, red-brick university, first job at £35K per annum and rising rapidly over time. And did this explain her alternative mindset? While her new social circle had enjoyed a comfortable upbringing, did she carry the seeds of a more brutish development? Most of the genuinely talented artists she knew in her genre were working-class. And was this a coincidence? Did more fortunate folk avoid such nonsense? Or was it rather that those who’d been protected from difficulties needn’t express such base concerns? Lisa’s fiction was, even at a casual reading, profoundly metaphorical. She occasionally felt as if she was attempting to—a phrase she’d once read somewhere—sing the world.

  At that moment, all she could think about was Paul Jenkins, now a gifted musician; she’d looked him up several times on the Internet. She knew all her old friends had developed interesting careers, each involving either art or, in one case, science. Anthony, the most sombre among them, had always been exact, curiously unwilling to listen to the plots she’d invented all those years ago, especially after his little brother had vanished.

  She shook her head, taking a sharp corner whose signpost read DEEPVALE: 3 MILES. God, she’d made quick progress. But when she focused on the land around the cruising vehicle, she noticed that early evening had already descended, rendering the sky a purplish bruise, with scudding cloud like dampish swabs alleviating its pain.

  Then she switched on her stereo.

  Now here was a guy who could write. Lisa had left mad old Lear on the blasted heath, chastising the heavens. Driving on amid so much woodland and rugged moors, she savoured all those wonderful lines, deriving a particular chill from the bard’s classic summation of humanity’s position on Earth: “As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods. They kill us for their sport.”

  In this location, with the wind nudging her vehicle like the petulant flick from a fickle deity, she believed she detected a great presence just out of sight, fundamentally awesome and yet frustratingly intangible.

  It was this sense of the ineffable she’d been struggling for years to work into her fiction.

  Maybe the effort was forlorn; perhaps she lacked the talent and the vision…Nevertheless, as the village came into view up ahead, she experienced a sudden surge of power.

  And then an arm was thrust out of a break in the forest alongside the lane.

  Lisa couldn’t help ascribing literary significance to even innocuous episodes, and when she examined the hand with its thumb upturned for a lift, she thought: Isn’t it symptomatic of the modern age that the thumb—the precursor of consciousness, the body part that led to the development of so many higher abilities—has come to denote neediness and even desperation?

  Lisa had studied evolutionary theory while working on a related short movie for a Glasgow festival about six years ago. She’d learned that the opposable thumb had allowed primitive man to use tools, and that this ability had, via natural selection, transformed the structure of the brain, prompting other adaptive functions such as language and intelligence.

  But in contemporary society it simply meant: Help. I’m cold. I need a lift.

  She sighed while passing the bearer of this gesture, slowing her coupe and trying to see who waited there. As a woman alone, despite being close to her destination, she didn’t wish to pick up the sort of psycho she’d sometimes written about. But drawing the car almost to a halt, she saw nobody beyond the arm, just a kind of blackness masked by what looked like a cloud of whitish flies. The image made her stomach writhe.

  She accelerated on, and after looking into her rearview mirror, noticed the hand had disappeared, as if it had never been there at all. Moments later, she gazed forwards again.

  And then stamped on her brake pedal.

  Lear had reached the worst excesses of his madness, and now Lisa thought she might be headed
that way herself. She wound down her window, partly to let in air, but mainly to decide whether the visual image ahead was supported by audition.

  No people were around her car, but all the buildings bore thatched roofs. This hadn’t been the case when she’d lived here years ago; she was sure the property had always been tiled with slate.

  Someone appeared up ahead, pacing out of a small house and talking loudly to his only companion. The man was short and dressed in outlandish garments, resembling the fool or madman in a Shakespearean play. Beside him scampered a small dog—a poodle, perhaps, but it was difficult to tell, because its body bore an outfit decorated in crosses and curves, like an ancient family’s insignia. When the pet’s owner grew close enough for Lisa to hear, she switched off her CD to listen. Pacing along a pavement more stone than concrete, he seemed unaware of Lisa’s presence.

  “Squire says I’m unworthy,” he said to the dancing animal, and adjusted a cloth cap that complemented his colourful clothing to a historically accurate tee. “And I be worthy—I know it’s so. Short of groats we be, and so will the woman indoors and our growing lads eat these coming days?”

  The dog performed an impromptu dance, as if by doing so, it would at least receive sustenance.

  Lisa shook her head. The man must be rehearsing for a play—he had to be. Yes, that was it: he was an actor, performing in some local production of an Elizabethan masterpiece. But now she realised she’d interpreted the episode through her current preoccupations.

  She closed her eyes. Reopened them.

  And saw the territory shudder.

  Then only familiar Deepvale surrounded the car, its central roundabout boasting that esoteric monument, which Lisa knew, having carried out research in the library as a teenager, dated back to the Middle Ages.

  She’d been working too hard, that was all. Stress in her relationship with Ben had caught up with her. How else could she account for what she’d just experienced?

  Where the man and his pet would have walked behind her car, there was now nobody. All her mirrors were empty, reflecting only the deserted lane leading into the village, where no arm was thrust forth from trees alongside it.

  She glanced forwards and her spirits were lifted when she noticed another vehicle waiting at the junction to her right. The man behind the steering wheel also looked bewildered, but Lisa drew strength from his sudden appearance.

  It was Paul Jenkins.

  EIGHTEEN

  Andy Smith’s wife had always supported his work, but when he said he had to go away again, she finally protested.

  “But you promised me and the kids you’d take us to Alton Towers. It’s their only week off school before Christmas.”

  “Yes, I know, but…well, this is important.”

  “That’s what you always say. But we never see any of the big money you promised when you went freelance five years ago.”

  And she never ceased reminding him of this fact.

  He was being unfair, however. He’d chosen marriage and children, and had responsibilities. Nevertheless, he was also beginning to understand his dad’s bad temper, and had certainly inherited a tendency to lose his own when life got on top of him.

  On this occasion, he marshalled the unrulier contents of his mind.

  “I’ll be back in a few days,” he told Kelly, the beauty that had bewitched him after he’d moved to a Liverpool art college attended by people who’d failed A-levels. Then he resorted to the technique his mum had often used whenever Andy had been hit for no better reason than being small enough to absorb paternal rage: “I’ll bring you all back presents.”

  Andy offered his two boys a hug in their double bedroom before leaving with a fold-up easel, his unfinished canvas and the bag full of clothing he’d prepared the previous evening after receiving an email from Ant Mallison. Blowing a kiss at Kelly, he flung his luggage into the car, which her receptionist’s wage only just supplied with petrol. With a week off work, his wife wouldn’t need transport, even though it would be helpful while dealing with the kids. But whenever anything like this cropped up, Andy had to obey. He’d told Kelly prior to their marriage what living with an artist would be like, and she hadn’t protested—not back then, anyway.

  “Phone me or else,” she said only half-playfully from the doorway to their council semi.

  She was still attractive, and he thought the image of her standing in this decadent environment would make a fine painting. But now he had another project to concern him and hoped this short stay away would help him concentrate on that.

  He climbed behind the steering wheel, gunned the engine and stole away.

  The family wouldn’t remain in the Wirral forever; he was determined to succeed soon as a major artist. He’d designed mass-market book covers and British film industry posters, but he’d finally been offered the chance to be noticed by those who held all the money in this game. It was a national advertisement campaign for a new kids’ monster-toy; the commissioners wanted something striking, stylish and scary. And Andy was certainly the man for the job, an artist often praised for the garish brilliance of his output.

  Lately, however, he’d lost whatever passion he’d developed since first taking pencil to paper in his early teens.

  He drove out of Liverpool, wondering whether such tawdry surroundings could corrode inspiration. There were few more dispiriting regions than this one, with its cramped housing, litter-strewn streets, and vandalised public conveniences. Sometimes he perceived a subversive beauty here, meaningful urban decay, but as much of the work he was commissioned to paint involved idealised portraits, how could he draw influence from where he lived?

  He was now headed for a richer environment, however. He hit the motorway that would take him past Preston and Blackburn, glancing at glorious countryside. He ought to bring the boys out here and show them what they were missing, something he’d taken for granted while growing up in isolated Deepvale. He’d failed to tell his wife where he was going; if she’d realised it was a reunion party, she might have insisted on her and the boys travelling with him. They’d all visited his parents a few times, but their sons had surely been too young to remember. Andy knew he must rectify this situation, but not so soon. Today was reserved for himself and the friends of his troubled youth.

  The reunion would bring the old gang together again…well, almost all of it. Simon wouldn’t be there, of course. But it would be great to see jokey Paul, lovely Lisa, and even serious Anthony. Andy couldn’t wait to arrive.

  He accelerated, all the green hills around him blearing as if the rainfall splashing on his windscreen had washed the landscape free of dirt. At a junction where he must turn to follow road signs north of Leeds, however, there’d been a major accident. A truck, a colossal hulk of steel with a bestial posture, had jackknifed, spilling goods all over the lanes. Andy hit his brakes, drawing to a halt while the clean-up operation involving police, an ambulance, and traffic patrol officers slowly continued.

  He decided to combat his impatience in the usual way, reaching under the passenger seat for a folder in which he’d stored prints of his favourite works of art. He had a penchant for the medieval and Renaissance periods, particularly the surreal and terrifying pictures of Hieronymus Bosch. While waiting in the traffic jam, he leafed through several monstrous creations with one dextrous thumb: The Garden of Earthly Delights, The Temptation of Saint Anthony, and other masterpieces, each depicting demons and creatures in incredible detail, which surely couldn’t be ascribed to imagination alone.

  A blaring horn roused him, and after glancing up, he realised the queue ahead had dispersed. Setting aside the prints, he let out the handbrake, engaged the clutch, and followed at a stately pace, which rendered the collapsed lorry beside the car an imposing image. Trundling past the behemoth, Andy was unable to visualise the whole of it. After looking at the stupendous paintings in the folder, his sense of awe in the presence of this accident seemed misplaced.

  But he was soon cruising towards th
e Yorkshire Dales, where his destination nestled like a bird of prey. Getting closer, he entertained similar metaphors, flattering himself that his language was worthy. He doubted Lisa Robinson would be impressed, however. He’d seen a few of her films, but had been reluctant to get in touch because of…well, because of what? The same reluctance had marred an awareness of Paul Jenkins’s music. Andy had bought the guy’s album from Amazon to keep the purchase anonymous. Why hadn’t he been honest enough to contact either artist? He’d responded eagerly to Ant’s email, after all. Could this be because Simon’s brother was now a psychologist and might even help Andy?

  But why did he feel he needed that kind of assistance anyway?

  He thrust aside these troubling thoughts, focusing again on the landscape. Everywhere was darkening, crowned by a frieze of moody clouds. Andy was happy to talk to his mum, but wasn’t looking forward to meeting his dad again. Andy didn’t get on with the old man: never had, simple as that. Indeed, the prospect of staying in his parents’ home for a few days made him feel anxious. He’d have to lose himself in work…But if the venue failed to impart its magic, reinforcing his aesthetic abilities the same way it had engendered them, what would he do then? How would he survive the trip?

  But he was being foolish. The village had just appeared up ahead. The direction at which he approached Deepvale brought the moors into sharp relief, looming over the church and other large buildings, as if planning an assault. Andy imagined himself recreating this vision on canvas. It was certainly breathtaking, but his next project involved no natural features, did it? For that piece of work, he’d need a touch of the otherworldly.

  Slowing the car to aid concentration, Andy noticed the way clouds had formed above the area where his parents’ bungalow was located…and The Conjurer’s House.