by Neil Jackson
Again the whole lift bucked and Anderson was knocked into the doors, cracking his forehead a good one as he went, and filling his head with bright shiny lights. The car came to a shuddering halt as fell to his knees, his hands clutching his brow.
Then, the lights went out.
Darkness, complete and suffocating.
Anderson tried to stem the tide of horror threatening to wash over him and drag him down into madness. The car remained stationary; the steady creaks from outside adding to the ominous sense of threat.
He activated his mobile phone, the light from the tiny screen seemingly huge in the pervading blackness about him. He checked his signal again, his heart scudding against his sternum before falling into the pit of his stomach when he saw the “No Service” warning on the screen.
Another squeal, another creak brought him into focus. The car jolted, skidding down the walls of the lift shaft for a few seconds before grinding to a halt. Anderson cried out in surprise and terror.
How the tables have turned, his mind teased. And it was wearing Jennifer’s voice just to drive the point home. Who’s scared now, Cory? Who’s at the mercy of something that has no care for the fear of others? How does it feel? How does it taste?
He tried to shut her out. But that would mean facing something else, right? Facing his true fear: the confined space.
The darkness.
It brought back memories, memories as dark as the ebony piss perfumed cloak wrapped about now. Hiding from Tommy, his psychotic brother, a perverse game of hide and seek that always ended the same: a beating for being so shit; then confinement, thrown in the cupboard under the stairs, a real life Harry Potter but wearing bruises rather than a cloud of magic.
Even though Tommy was now kept somewhere with lots of doctors and nurses keeping him a splendid isolation, courtesy of heavy doses of Olanzepine and dull brown leather straps with bright silver buckles, Cory Anderson wore his brother’s legacy like an ill fitting suit. Usually a quiet soul, nagging from a distance, but sometimes, times like these for example, coming to the front of the stage and bringing the whole wretched house down; the phantom bringing about destruction in a wreath of flame.
A huge crash on the roof of the car sent the phone tumbling from Anderson’s grasp. The small screen splashed its watery light to the ceiling, and Anderson followed its beam instinctively, his braised hands clamped across his mouth; not in an attempt to stifle his scream but to stop a huge wave of vomit ejecting from his mouth. “Fear is nature’s purge” Tommy had once said before beating Cory senseless with their mother’s old broom.
Now the purging was back and wanting to let off steam. He swallowed hard, the acrid vomit burning his throat on its return journey. And all the time Anderson watched the roof of the car, waiting for something terrible to happen.
His fear wanted to morph so badly into anger. Some of the hot stuff he’d dished out to Malcolm not fifteen minutes ago as Jennifer begged him to stop. But impotence had moved in, his fear consuming as the thing overhead began to pace, heavy foot falls making the car tremble in a steady, sullen rhythm.
“Oh God, oh God,” he whispered behind the palm clasped to his mouth. “What the hell is it?”
But he wasn’t really concerned about what it was; he was more concerned about what it could do. What it would do. Part of him became convinced that there was no way on this God-given-Earth the thing would be able to get into the car.
Get to him.
But then Anderson’s rational mind suggested that if it could smash its way into a lift shaft and jump three floors onto the roof of the car, then it would be near enough able to do what the fuck it wanted. And what it wanted now was to torment and tease and show that it called the shots. It wanted its prey to know that it was cornered, and although he’d fought against his darkest fear and entered the lift, Anderson was yet to know what fear truly was; what it could truly do.
The power save mode kicked in, throwing the lift into total darkness.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and the sounds of pacing overheard came to a sudden halt. And then the growling returned, deep and coarse and powerful.
Anderson scrabbled around for his phone, trying bring back the light. “Are you nuts?” his mind sang. “You really want to see what’s about to tear you apart?”
From far away, he made the decision, that yes, perhaps, after all of these years the dark could become a friend. He would make his peace with it. Just for this one day, the last day of his life.
The roof overhead groaned as a huge force struck it, and the lift was suddenly full of light, Anderson covering his eyes from the brilliance as the fluorescents came back online. Through his blurred vision he could see a portion of the roof had been hit with such might it sagged inwards. Another blow opened the dent like a lanced blister.
Anderson could only stare as the big gnarled hand came through the gap, probing, searching for the edges. Twisted fingers - thick as rope and blending seamlessly into wicked, wicked talons - curled around the ragged hole they had carved and then yanked backwards, peeling away a section of roof as though it were a swatch of fabric.
Below Anderson watched, his eyes so wide that to any onlooker they appeared about to leave their sockets, his fear morphing into terror, not the mind numbing kind, but the kind that is bright and final. Anderson opened his mouth and gasped, and it came as a reed-thin sound.
And when the growling began, filling the car with its savage music, Cory Anderson added to the lift’s aroma by pissing his pants.
Sitting in a cooling pool of his own urine, Anderson watching the thing as it emerged through the makeshift opening. First came those hands, fingers hooked and eager, followed by a long slim wrist, the skin smudged with whites and purples, the veins knotted and so close to the surface Anderson could see the blue-green blood pumping through them. Saliva dropped into the car from the dark, ragged hole above in viscous strings, a terrible rain that purged nothing.
Then came the face.
And those eyes.
Up close Anderson was mesmerised by them, twin orbs of fire locking onto him, piercing him, branding his very soul with their intensity. The rest of the creature’s face was no less incredible: a high brow, thick black hair matted and plastered to its skull, and the side of its head so the pointed ears jutted from the mane like twin shark fins cutting through the surf.
Then it was in the lift, landing with a heavy thump and bringing with it the putrid reek of decaying meat; forcing Anderson’s gut to unload its contents again, and there was no stopping it this time, his puke slapping down his chest and into his lap, where it made its acquaintance with his piss soaked pants.
The thing reached down and took hold of Anderson by the throat, lifting his dead weight as though it were nothing at all. Instinctively, Anderson’s hands went for the wrist attached the vice now crushing his larynx. The world turned to fog as his oxygen supply was severed, but in the mist of his fading consciousness, he realised that the hands he’d clamped about the beasts wrist were making contact with cold, hard metal. Before he could make sense of it the creature was savaging him, teeth making contact with the flesh of his face, ruining it, severing lips and ears and the nose, chewing on the skull as though engaged in a brutal, bloody kiss.
Then powerful jaws clamped down and cracked open the skull, and Cory Anderson ceased to exist. The beast sucked out his brain and swallowed it in two bites; releasing the mutilated corpse almost immediately and leaving it to crash to the bloodied floor.
For a short time the thing watched Anderson’s remains, its eyes unblinking, and as red as the blood splashed across its misshapen face. Then it was moving again, its long scrawny arms reaching up to the ceiling and hooking onto its crude exit in the roof.
And as it reached up and hoisted itself out of the car, a small object slipped down the creature’s wrist, an object made from cheap steel and plated with yellow paint.
A fak
e Rolex watch.
THE CURIOUS OBSESSION OF MATTHEW DEACON - Richard Tyndall
1
Aldwark is a typical eastern shire town sitting serenely in the midst of manicured agricultural landscapes on the gravel terraces of the River Trespass. It has all the facilities and attractions one might expect of such a burgh. The cobbled market place – markets held Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays – is expansive and bounded on its western flanks by a fine, colonnaded Georgian Town Hall flying the cross of St George.
The parish church, notable for the height of its steeple, lies just off the square behind a row of equally fine Georgian terraces. The castle, where at least one English King breathed his last, has latterly been reduced from its former glory by the misnamed Lord Protector, flushed with the success of the Puritan rebellion; its ornate carved limestone features stripped away and its stone reused in manor houses and cottages across half of the shire. Recently restored, at least to the extent of making it safe for inquisitive children and visiting tourists, it still presents a majestic façade to the river and contains within its grounds the Victorian library named for one of the town’s philanthropic benefactors.
The area betrays its Danelaw origins both in its plan and in the street names – the Germanic ‘gate’ suffix being common throughout the town. A liberal scattering of Norse and Saxon place-names in the surrounding villages only serve to reinforce the area’s Scandinavian heritage. Close by the town are Bronze Age barrows, Roman settlements and Saxon cemeteries whilst half a dozen of the local roads began as prehistoric trackways, later Roman highways and finally Restoration turnpikes. The district has produced one Prime Minister and numerous generals, writers, artists, scientific theorists and other gentlemen of note.
It is unsurprising therefore that, in a town so immersed in history and moment, there should be a museum to collect and display the many artefacts and archaeological curiosities uncovered by more than a century of research and excavation. The institution in question is housed in a series of old school buildings – Tudor in origin - on Orchard Gate; a tree lined avenue which runs from the market place, past the back of the church and down a shallow hill towards the railway station on the northern fringes of the town. At some point in the last century or two an architectural vandal realized that there was just enough room between the edge of the road and the old school to place a four storey block of dark brick and misery in front of the Tudor halls and, when the complex became the home for the town’s museum, it was this uninspiring building that was chosen to house the offices, archives and laboratories that would sort and store the minutiae of Aldwark’s past.
When first we met, Matthew Deacon was a tall, stringy, fifteen year old whose home was in the village of Byfordham just over the borders of the shire. He had a fascination with all things ancient and had, early in his teens, taken to hanging around the museum chatting with the curators and undertaking odd jobs for Gordon Sullivan, the town’s archaeological conservator. Sullivan was an old, heavily bearded archaeologist who, in spite of being in his late middle age and facing the prospect of retirement in perhaps only a few years, was nevertheless able to instil in our young friend an abiding love of the mystery and glamour of past lives and the artefacts that were their lasting representation in our modern age. So powerful was Sullivan’s influence that, when the time came for him to consider a university education which would decide the future path of his life, Deacon had no hesitation in choosing Cambridge and the formal study of the art and science of archaeology.
Looking back now it might seem that the timing of events was all too perfect to be simple coincidence but such hindsight provides a dangerous and misleading view of the way the world works and it should be sufficient to record the events as they occurred without further comment. So it came to pass that, just as Deacon completed his university education with well deserved accolades, Sullivan, having hung on in his position far longer than anyone had expected, should finally reach an age at which it was considered he could no longer carry out his duties to the satisfaction of the local corporation and should take his leave of the museum. Foreswearing the many offers of further research and highly sought after positions of employment, Matthew Deacon returned to Aldwark and, with the minimum of fuss, took up the position previously held by his friend and mentor.
One spring afternoon, half a year after he had taken up his new position, I called upon the town archaeologist at his offices and invited him to step out for afternoon tea at a small café opposite the museum. This had become something of a ritual indulgence undertaken at least once every week and was always a most pleasant experience for both of us. Deacon was unfailingly bright and cheerful, never seeming to let any adversity destroy his positive outlook on life and his company and conversation were always a pleasure. But on this occasion I was immediately struck by the aura of pent up excitement that surrounded him as he bounced down the stairs ahead of me and rushed across the road into the café. Never had I seen him more buoyant; a state of mind I mistakenly attributed to his recent notable successes on a Roman excavation on the fringes of the town. This, combined with his employment in a place where, under other circumstances, I am sure he would have paid good money to work, seemed good enough reason for him to be pleased with his lot.
But given that he surely had much news of interest to impart concerning his ongoing research and forthcoming excavations, I was momentarily surprised by his opening remarks.
Once we had settled to our table and taken delivery of our refreshments, he began.
“I saw her Dr Trenton. As plainly as I see you sitting there in front of me with that teacake in your hand, I saw her on the stairs.” He was almost breathless in his excitement.
I knew immediately to whom he was referring and smiled indulgently at my young friend’s child-like enthusiasm for his recent experience. It was clear that he had just had his first encounter with Maud.
Ever since Matthew started working at the Museum as a curious teenager, he had heard the stories about the girl on the stairs. Almost everyone who worked in the building had seen her at one time or another and she had become such a familiar sight for many there that she was now considered part of the fixtures and fittings; a good subject for pranks, late night stories and general discussion. No one felt any fear concerning her presence although some of the secretaries had, on occasion, expressed their dislike of staying in the offices alone.
The offices and stores occupied only one end of the four-storey building and were reached by a doorway adjacent to the main entrance to the museum. Each floor was connected by a set of spiral stairs which rose through the end of the building with small landings on each level to give access to the rooms. On the ground floor were store rooms for artefacts; row upon row of shelves and racks containing boxes of finds, donations and collections, many of which were poorly recorded and long forgotten.
From the narrow, stone flagged hallway the metal stairs ascended to the first floor where the conservation laboratory and archaeology office were all contained within a single, large, concrete floored room with high ceilings and wide sash windows. Above, on the second floor, were the secretary’s office and the museum records and accounts while the third and final floor and attics contained the archives, the manuscript collections and the small private museum library.
The ghost, known affectionately as Maud – a name ascribed to the apparition so long ago that no one at the museum now knew its origins – would enter through the door on the ground floor. She would then ascend the stairs, past the laboratory on the first and the offices on the second floors apparently en route for the archives at the top of the building. From here there was no exit other than an emergency door and fire escape which were alarmed to prevent misuse or burglary. Needless to say, Maud never reached the top floor and anyone embarking upon pursuit would find the archives empty and the emergency exit undisturbed.
At this point in our tale a description of the apparition is also probably in order, if only to help in underst
anding my young friends fascination with her. What is perhaps most surprising about the reports of her appearance is that she seemed so completely normal. A young woman of an age at which thoughts turn inevitably to marriage, dressed in a knee length dress of some indefinable flower pattern – the sort of garment suitable for attracting the admiring gazes of young men on warm summer afternoons. Auburn hair fell unfettered to bare shoulders and her feet were clad in simple sandals. But in spite of these otherwise clear and consistent descriptions, no one could provide any detail of her face. No matter where one stood when encountering the vision, her head was always turned away from the observer or oriented so that her hair fell across her face, hiding her features from all possible study.
For Deacon the spirit on the stairs had long ago developed into something of a cause for annoyance. He had nothing particularly against the ghost, quite the reverse. It was just that, in the six years since he had first entered the museum and in spite of the many hours spent working with Sullivan in the laboratory, Matthew had never seen so much as a glimpse of the famous apparition.
At one point he had come to the conclusion that he was the victim of a huge and long running joke in which everyone, even his closest friends, was involved. It is to his credit that, in spite of flirting occasionally with this opinion, he never allowed it to colour his underlying attitude towards his friends. Though his patience was stretched when even the newest arrivals on the museum staff might encounter the vision after only a few days in the building. Eventually even Deacon himself became part of the tale, as the one and only person in the building who had never seen the ghost.
