‘I’m a bit tired.’
‘You were obviously very brave. We’ll take a taxi back to the flat, shall we, darling?’
‘Hang on.’
‘What’s that?’ She looked alarmed again.
‘There’s someone by the turnstile of the pool,’ I said hesitantly.
‘Someone you know?’
‘I’m not sure – I think so. I shan’t be a sec.’
‘Rik-wait-’
But I was already running back towards the turnstile. The old priest stood there smiling. I ran to him as hard as I could, but as I drew nearer I saw the flesh on his face was withering and the bones were sticking through.
‘Thank you.’ His voice echoed faintly in my mind. ‘You helped me to keep my promise to one child at least.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said, but he had already disappeared.
Tim shuddered as Rik finished his story. ‘Have you ever seen Alexis again?’ he asked, but Rik shook his head.
‘I wasn’t meant to.’
‘You made that old priest sound so frightening,’ said Alison.
‘He was at the time, but not when I think about him now.’
‘No, I can see that,’ replied Alison slowly. ‘I know it’s wrong, but I’m scared of old people. There’s an old friend of my gran’s who always looks at me as if she’d like to steal my life.’
‘Poor old thing,’ said someone in the darkness. ‘She’s probably only trying to be friendly.’
‘I know,’ replied Alison. ‘You’re right, I’m sure, but I had this awful experience when I went to stay with Gina. She’s Italian, the daughter of my mother’s best friend, and together we had this – I’d better tell you from the beginning.’
9
The Haunted Gondola
I was staying with Gina at her home in Venice for a few weeks, and we loved to walk along the banks of the canals, just talking and being together. One day we were returning home when we caught sight of two old people clambering awkwardly into a gondola. The gondolier poled away and they floated under the bridge. Idly I watched them. Gina’s home was near by and I knew the bridge very well. It was a particularly strange and beautiful one, decorated with the stone figures of children playing games. I had loved them since I first came to Venice; they were remarkably lifelike as they hopped, skipped, bowled, somersaulted, cart-wheeled and played catch.
It was one of those early spring days when there’s no wind and everything is silent. There weren’t many tourists around, just the odd couple, and there was such a complete stillness that the poling of the gondolier seemed very loud. Almost mesmerized by the sound, we stood there, staring at them, and suddenly to my complete amazement something really terrifying happened. As the old couple in the gondola went under the bridge, the stone children came to life, jerkily at first and then more naturally as they pointed excitedly down at the gondola, nodding and signing to each other but not speaking.
At first I was sure I must be dreaming or seeing things or something, but when Gina said, ‘Look at the statues – they’re moving,’ I knew it must be for real. Transfixed, we stared at the bridge, but within seconds the stone children had returned to their original positions.
Gina looked at me suspiciously, as if somehow I had caused the stone children to move.
‘What were they pointing at?’ I asked, and without thinking ran over the bridge to catch up with the gondola. When I was abreast of it I had the second most powerful shock of my life. The two old people had disappeared, and in their place were two children – a boy and a girl – dressed in jeans, T-shirts and trainers. The gondola nudged to the side, where a small playground ran down to the water’s edge, and I watched in amazement as the children sprang out and raced over to play on the swings.
Gina had followed, and we stood there, staring. Gina just seemed curious, but a surge of fear was beginning to sweep over me and I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. Two old people had got into a gondola and come out as children, while stone statues had moved and pointed. I looked at Gina. ‘I don’t get it,’ I whispered, but she only shrugged. Meanwhile the gondolier stood in his craft, leaning on his pole quite casually, watching the children play.
‘Let’s take a look,’ Gina announced suddenly. Unlike me she was a forceful person and a natural leader. I was always much shyer, and although I enjoyed my visits to Venice was often homesick for England. Typical for this to happen in Venice, I thought; it would never happen in Bexhill on Sea, where I live.
We walked slowly across to the playground to find that the children were about our age, and seemed perfectly normal. Both swarthy and handsome, with shining dark hair, they were very obviously Italian, but they didn’t reply when Gina called out to them. Completely absorbed, they see-sawed, spun each other on a round-about and then played on a climbing-frame. They didn’t take the slightest notice of either of us.
Eventually the gondolier quietly raised his hand. Immediately the two children stopped playing and walked very reluctantly back to the gondola and jumped in. He poled off slowly, while they gazed regretfully at the playground. Then the gondola slid quietly under the bridge.
‘Come on’ I said, surprised to find myself taking the lead. ‘Let’s get over the bridge. We have to see what happens.’
We ran as fast as we could, but the gondola was already emerging on the other side as we raced along the path by the side of the tall, looming buildings. Soon we could see the two crouched figures, but they were no longer children. Humped and rigid, wrinkled and gnarled, they rose stiffly to help each other clumsily out of the gondola. The gondolier waved a lazy hand as he poled away and the two old people haltingly waved back.
I glanced at the bridge but there was no sign of movement from the stone children; they were as still as carved stone should be.
‘We’ll follow them,’ said Gina impulsively.
‘OK.’
We strolled as casually as we could behind the two old people, deliberately keeping at a discreet distance. They said nothing to each other and neither did we, as we made our slow progress through the narrow streets with their overhanging houses and constant glimpses of water.
Soon they paused outside a narrow house with gables and slowly pushed open the door. There was a sign on the wall that I couldn’t read, and once they had vanished inside I turned to Gina and asked her to translate the words into English. She didn’t reply for a few seconds and I saw that there was an expression of confusion and dawning anxiety on her face. ‘It says “Chapel of Rest”. The building is occupied by a firm of undertakers,’ she said at last.
I stared at her hypnotically. Then I blurted out, ‘You mean they’re the undertakers?’
‘I think they’re a bit old for that, aren’t they?’
‘So –’ We gazed at each other, both wondering what the other was thinking.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said, hoping that Gina could supply another explanation. She did.
‘Suppose they’re dead – that they’ve been given some last moments?’
‘Moments?’ I repeated, knowing what she was going to say but hardly daring to go along with it. ‘Moments?’
‘Last moments of childhood, when they could run and jump and play.’
‘But how could they be given that?’ Can we really be having this conversation, I thought, the fear tugging at me, making me feel sick.
‘Maybe the gondolier knows,’ said Gina, pulling me back into the shadows. ‘Here he comes.’
Sure enough, he was walking slowly and casually up the narrow street, whistling to himself. He stopped outside the Chapel of Rest and then ran up the steps and walked inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.
‘Why did he do that?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps he saw us,’ muttered Gina.
‘He looks about the same age as my cousin Richard, who’s nineteen.’
‘Yes,’ replied Gina, but she was still staring at the open door and wasn’t really listening.
‘Let’s go in,’ I
said.
‘What!’ She was astounded, but whether it was the suggestion or because I made it was hard to tell. I can’t think why I did make it, but I suppose I knew we had to do something. It would be unbearable to go back to Gina’s home without finding the solution to the mystery.
‘Let’s go in. We can always say – that we want a brochure or something.’
‘What would we want with a brochure?’
‘We could say you’ve got an old aunt who might die at any moment –’ I began.
‘You think he’ll believe we arrange our relatives’ funerals?’ she said, staring at me as if I was crazy.
‘Well, he might just think we’re trying to be helpful -’
She shrugged as if to say, ‘Well, she’s English – it stands to reason she’s potty,’ and I was suddenly annoyed.
‘I’m going in,’ I said with unfamiliar resolution, and I walked quickly up the steps and pushed open the door.
Inside there was an empty reception area and a series of small chapels leading off a long corridor. Each had what looked like a marble interior, holy pictures, a cross, plastic flowers and a raised dais for a coffin. A tape played muted organ music. We peered fearfully into each chapel in turn, but they were all empty until we reached the last one, where there were two coffins, side by side. A tall candle was burning on each side of them, and in their flickering light we could just see that they contained the two old people we had followed up the road.
Gina and I stood there dumbfounded, the creeping horror of it all coursing through our veins.
‘We saw them walking,’ she whispered.
‘We saw them playing,’ I replied.
‘Then who is he?’ she asked desperately. ‘Who is the gondolier?’
‘Maybe he’s Death,’ I suggested. ‘The Grim Reaper himself, but being kind for once – spreading a bit of magic’
We considered the situation for a few seconds, gazing down into the faces of the old couple who looked so peaceful and so happy in their coffins.
‘They’ll be buried soon,’ remarked Gina. ‘Maybe that was their last outing.’
‘But there’ll be others,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure there’ll be others.’
‘I don’t really believe it though.’ Gina frowned. ‘Not even now.’ She paused and then looked at me with a strange excitement in her eyes. ‘You know, I never really believe anything unless I experience it for myself.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked uneasily.
‘I’m going to try for myself.’
‘What?’
‘The other way round. I’ll go with him – and see if I change into an old person.’
‘You might be stuck,’ I said horrified.
‘They changed back. I’ll change back.’ She sounded positive and excited, as if she must challenge herself, push herself towards the dangerous edge of things.
‘Why do you want to do it?’ I said curiously, thinking it was typical of Gina to set herself such an appalling challenge.
‘To see what it would be like to be old. I could be more sympathetic to old people – to Aunt Lucia for instance – if I really knew what it was like.’
‘You mustn’t!’ I hissed at her, wishing I’d never tried to take the initiative by exploring the Chapel of Rest.
‘But why not? It’s quite safe. They changed. So will I.’
‘It’s not,’ I wailed. ‘Obviously it’s not. We’re dabbling in something we don’t understand. And they weren’t just old – they’re dead!’
‘It’ll be an adventure,’ Gina said, the awful glint still in her eyes.
‘It would be madness,’ I hissed. ‘Absolute madness.’
‘Madness?’ The quiet voice nearly made me pass out with shock and I swung round to find the young gondolier standing behind us, looking more boyish than ever.
‘I’m sorry – we’re trespassing,’ I stuttered, but the gentle smile never left his lips.
Gina didn’t look in the least apologetic. ‘Did you hear what we were saying?’ she demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you take me?’
‘It’s only one way.’ His voice was very soft. ‘Old to young. For a short time.’
‘How do you do it?’ I said, but he didn’t reply.
‘Who are you?’ asked Gina.
The boy laughed gently and I was amazed to see that he only looked about fourteen now.
‘Who do you work for?’ persisted Gina. and although he didn’t reply we both felt we new.
There was a long silence, then Gina asked the gondolier challengingly, ‘Well? Are you going to give it a try?’
For a moment he paused, and then a look of mischief came into his eyes. ‘Why not?’ he said coolly.
‘Have you done this before?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Then don’t do it. Please don’t do it!’ I shouted, feeling quite frantic with fear and anxiety.
‘Don’t you like a risk?’ he asked me mockingly. ‘Won’t you take on a challenge?’ His smile was derisive now.
‘No,’ I yelled. ‘I won’t–’
‘I will,’ said Gina.
Nothing I could say would dissuade her as I followed them both back down the narrow street to the water’s edge. It was late afternoon and there was no one around – no one I could appeal to. But what would I have said to them? That somehow Gina had made a pact with the Devil? It was too ludicrous, yet I believe it to be true.
She leapt into the gondola and he poled off before I could plead with her any more.
‘The stone children,’ I shouted out to them. ‘Gina – they’re laughing at you.’
And they were. The figures had come to life and they were nudging each other, pointing and grinning.
I raced past the bridge and saw the old, gnarled, woman in the back of the gondola. ‘Gina!’ I called despairingly, but it was too late.
Gina got out of the gondola and walked into the deserted children’s playground, where she sat on a swing, pushing it to and fro gently, humming a little cracked tune. She was wearing a shapeless old black dress and her hair was snowy white.
I turned to the gondolier and said furiously, ‘You’ll have to do something!’
He nodded and beckoned, and slowly – oh, so slowly – Gina came towards us.
I waited in an agony of apprehension as the gondola came slowly under the bridge. As it emerged I felt dizzy, dry-mouthed, sick with horror at what I feared might be true. Gina was still a wrinkled old lady and the gondolier was no more than a little boy with a guilty grin.
‘You’ve got to turn her back!’
He shrugged. ‘She took the risk.’
Gina stood up stiffly and took my hand. ‘I know where I have to go,’ she said in a quavering voice. ‘Help me.’
She took my arm and we walked slowly back up the narrow street to the Chapel of Rest. The door was open and the organ tape played in the background as we walked down the corridor.
‘Here it is,’ said Gina.
The open coffin was ready and she climbed in and closed her eyes.
There was a long, stunned silence.
‘What did you tell her parents?’ asked Debbie at last.
‘That she had fallen in the canal,’ said Alison. ‘It was all I could say.’
‘I suppose they never found a body.’
‘No,’ said Alison slowly. ‘They never did.’
‘And what about the gondolier?’ whispered Tim. ‘Is he still there?’
‘I don’t know. It was the last day of my visit and my parents had come to collect me. There was an investigation of course – but they didn’t keep me long and we were soon back home.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m glad I told you – but I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
The second silence was even longer than the first.
‘I’ve got a story that I’ve never told – not to anyone,’ said Abby’s voice out of the darkness, ‘and when I’ve told you, I don’t think I’ll ever want to tell
anyone again.’
10
The Vampire
My uncle runs a very lonely petrol station in the west of Ireland. His wife died not long ago and he’s terribly lonely, so twice a year my parents and I go to stay with him. Last time they went off for a few days’ touring, leaving Uncle Sean and me together. He’s a lovely person, full of stories, and he knows the wild countryside and sea-shore there better than anyone.
Not much traffic stopped to fuel up at the pumps, largely because a huge bypass had been built, but Uncle Sean just seemed to be glad that the little country road had reverted to the way it had been when he was a boy, with all the wild flowers and herbs and insects and butterflies coming back now the petrol and diesel fumes had gone away.
But there was one very regular customer who came every day – a very old chauffeur driving a long, black limousine with a young boy in the back. A wheelchair was tucked in beside the boy and he was covered in blankets, so I imagined he was crippled or ill or both.
‘Real gas-guzzler, that limo,’ Uncle Sean would say with relish. ‘Needs filling up every day; she can’t do many miles to the gallon.’
‘Who are they?’ I asked curiously when the highly polished limousine had arrived for the second time and the old chauffeur stood silently by the pumps while Uncle Sean filled up the tank. The windows of the car had all been wound up, despite the fact that it was a sunny morning in early summer, and the boy had stared out pathetically.
‘That’s Larn, that is. He’s got some kind of wasting disease – lives up at Shamrock Hall, the big old house on the cliffs. I don’t know his parents, although they’ve lived there for years. Old people – had him late – and they keep themselves to themselves. Proper recluses. They just send the old man out with the boy once a day and that’s it. Heaven knows what kind of life the poor thing leads.’
‘Doesn’t the chauffeur ever talk to you?’
‘Not a word – not even so much as the time of day. I know his name – it’s Archie – and he’s from the islands. Very discreet, very quiet, and probably paid to be.’
‘Doesn’t Larn go to school?’
‘Not him. He’s educated by his mother.’
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark Page 10
