copyright (c) 2008I've always wanted to write a ghost story, but I didn't because I couldn't see how I could bring anything even slightly original to the table. Then I wrote one anyway because the central character came into my head and refused to leave. Originality be damned, writing the story was just a ruse to get rid of Mr Harry Miller and his fondness for poking around in haunted houses. The trouble is, however, this story grew until it became several stories, of which this is the first. So it looks as if I'm still lumbered with Harry, his drinking habit and his compass.
February, 1939
"There are several types of ghost, actually," Harry said. He was peering though the windscreen as he spoke, trying to read a road sign.
Victoria shrugged the collar of her raincoat up around her neck. A cold draught was creeping in around the door and biting at her face. The weather was foul, a freezing wind whipped the trees and tore the clouds into ragged, grey shreds.
"Including the ones with the sheets draped over them?" She asked. Harry didn't answer. The road sign came and went, he made an exasperated noise and reached for the map.
Victoria put out a finger and jabbed him in the arm.
"Ouch!"
"Well pay attention then."
"I am. Well, as best I can whilst driving and map reading as well.”
"I knew it." She sank back into her seat. "We're hopelessly lost and we'll end up going around in circles and then trailing back to the hotel." She checked her watch. "It's tea time," she announced. "Back at the hotel they'll be serving sandwiches and cake and hot tea." Her voice became wistful. "Dundee cake. With butter. And scones, and hot tea."
"Yes, thank you. Enough." Harry noisily changed down as the narrow lane turned to the left. "The point is," he went on, "you won't see any ghosts in the restaurant at the 'Regal Hotel', hence this trip."
"There was the bell hop. He looked half dead."
"He was perfectly fine. He took care of our cases with no trouble."
"He was ancient. He was more shuffle than hop. I thought he'd never make it to the third floor, the way he was puffing."
"Yes, well, I gave him a large tip for his trouble."
"Did you? Hmph, well you're too soft then."
"And you're too judgemental."
"And you're asking for a punch in the eye."
He shook his head. "Are all journalists as aggressive as you?"
"We are when we're hungry. And gasping for a drink."
"So pretty much all the time then," Harry said.
Victoria laughed a little, but caught it and turned it into a cough instead. "Anyway," she said after a slight pause, "you still didn't answer my question."
"Which question was that?"
"Oh for heaven's sake."
They motored on in silence for a minute or two, then Harry said “Ahah!” and stopped the car.
A small cottage stood by the roadside. The whitewashed walls were so grubby they had taken on the same dreary colour as the sky.
They surveyed it while the engine rumbled and burbled to itself.
"Is that it?" Victoria asked.
"I think so..."
It sat behind a ragged hedge. Small windows stared blankly back at them.
"How long has this place been empty?”
“About a year.”
Victoria assumed an expression of distaste. “I suppose it's got things living in it, then.”
Harry glanced at her, keeping his face straight. "Probably. Rats, mice. Cockroaches.”
"God." She made a small and despairing noise. "I hate the country."
He smiled at that. "Come on. Don't worry about the wildlife, I'll protect you."
Her expression did not change as they waded through the damp weeds to the front door, the wind tugging at them all the time.
The key scraped and clunked in the lock. Harry pushed the door inwards, revealing a dark void beyond.
A dull and heavy feeling settled on her mind. Black shadows spilled from the doorway and filled her eyes, draining all the colours from the world.
"You ready?" Harry was looking at her.
She blinked and had to scrabble for words. "Yes, of course.” A dull and throbbing pain blossomed inside her skull. She followed him inside, feeling slightly dizzy and sick. A migraine, it had to be. She cursed her luck that it had to happen now. Never mind, if she could just sit down somewhere then it would pass, soon enough. They always did.
The house smelt stale and damp. She sniffed the air and made a face.
“You can tell it's been empty,” Harry murmured. They were in a small hallway, their shoes scraping on dusty flagstones. A narrow staircase to the right, a door to the left. The grey, feeble daylight only served to thicken the shadows.
Harry opened the door and peered in. “Lounge,” he said over his shoulder.
Victoria followed him in to a small room, barely lit by a grimy window. A sofa, in green and brown and sagging at the seams, was the only furniture. It stared across the room at a fireplace, from which they could hear the distant roaring of the wind.
“You said this belonged to a friend of yours?” Victoria was looking around. Everything looked dirty, mouldy, decaying. She didn't much relish the idea of spending time in here at all. There was an unpleasant atmosphere to the place. It felt old, but without dignity, like a sick and decrepit old man with wheezing lungs and shaking limbs.
She absently rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the ache.
“Arthur. Good chap. He's currently digging for diamonds in western Australia. He said I could pop in here any time I wanted.” Harry went over to another door in the far wall and opened it.
“What on earth did he want with a dump like this?”
“He inherited it. His aunt used to live here.”
“Oh, I see.” Victoria peered out of the window. “So he reckons this place is haunted?”
“Um. So he says.” Harry came back in and closed the door behind him.
“By his aunt, I suppose?”
“I doubt it. She's in a retirement home in Swanage.”
Victoria made a sarcastic noise in response. She examined the dirt and dust on the mantle and tutted. “Why are haunted houses always in ruins? Why don't ghosts hang around in apartments, or maisonettes?”
Harry was heading for the door. “People see what they expect to see,” he said. “Look, you wait here and I'll nip out and get the bag.”
Quite suddenly, she wanted to say no, don't, because I don't want to stay in this miserable and filthy hole for even a second longer. She bit back the words however. She was here because she had asked to come. She was not about to start whining and asking to go home, like some drippy crybaby. “How long will this take, do you think?” She chose her words carefully.
“No idea,” Harry said. He seemed horribly relaxed about it all. “Ghosts are not predictable, you know.”
“Harry, you know what I mean. Do we have to stay here all night? Don't they usually come out at two in the morning?”
He smiled at her. “No, not really. They can pop up at any time. Anyway, you'd have to be a complete fool to spend the whole night in here.” He stopped when he saw the look on her face. “You don't actually want to spend the night here, do you? I mean, it hasn't even got a working toilet, you know.”
“Harry, you're being very smug which annoys me, so stop it.”
“Sorry, sorry, won't do it again.” He held up his hands in apology. “Look, seriously, I was planning on staying for just a few hours, see what happens, if anything, then heading back. Is that all right with you?”
Victoria nodded, mollified.
“Good. Right then, I'll get the bag.” He gave her a reassuring smile before he left the room.
She watched through the window as he went to the car.
The wind blew heavily in the chimney. A tiny shower of dust trickled down and fell into the hearth. A sweet smell was drifting through the room from somewhere. She sniffed the air and made a face. It was too sweet, cloying and sickly. She shuddered at the thought of what might be making it.
Harry came back in, noisily slamming the front door behind him. “There's something nasty in here,” she told him, fanning her face.
Harry gave her a blank look, then sniffed. “Well it's not exactly a rose garden,” he admitted. “I think we should have a look round, see where the smells are coming from.”
“I'm not sure I want to know.”
He ignored that remark and led the way upstairs. There were two small, dark rooms, with mean little windows. They both reeked of stale mould. Victoria paled and backed away.
“Well yes,” Harry agreed. “It does pong a bit.”
Downstairs they poked around a bit more, found a rudimentary kitchen and through the back door, a privy with no roof and sagging walls. Victoria was glad to get some fresh air. She gratefully filled her lungs before following Harry back inside, into the lounge.
“Bit grim, isn't it?” Harry said. He sat on the sofa and dragged the bag towards him. “I don't blame Auntie for moving out.” He rummaged in the bag. “Yours, I believe?”
“Um. Yes.” She took the hip flask and opened it with undisguised enthusiasm.
“Why exactly are you here?” Harry asked her as she sat gingerly down beside him.
She shrugged. “I thought it would make a good story.”
“Ghosts? You don't believe in ghosts.”
“Hmph.” She took a swig from her flask. “My editor told me that if I could knock up a story, he'd get me a quarter page in the Sunday supplement.”
“Pile cream.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
Harry rummaged in his inside pocket and produced his own hip flask. He knocked it against Victoria's. “Cheers. Pile cream. The supplements are full of adverts for it.”
She stared for a few seconds while he calmly drank. “If you're making fun of me..”
“No, absolutely not.” He rummaged in the bag again. “Biscuits?” He asked, holding up a small tin.
The sky darkened into a thick and angry purple. Harry stood a paraffin lantern on the window ledge which cast a pale, yellow light over the dreary room.
“No such thing as ghosts,” Victoria said. She waved her biscuit around at the room, the house, the wind-blown fields and most of Sussex. “Not a thing. You're a fraud, sir.”
“You're very impatient.” Harry was leaning back, hands behind his head, a picture of calm.
“I suppose. But then you promised me ghosts. Spectres and apparitions and a guest appearance by Count Dracula.”
“I never promised vampires. Not even in my most drunken state would I entertain such a notion.”
“All right, maybe not vampires.” She sat back down on the sofa and closed her eyes for a second. She knew that Harry was looking at her, and she didn't know why, but then she didn't care. Her head throbbed and she wanted to go back to the hotel and go to bed. The nasty sweet smell was back again. It seemed to come and go, like a pet dog that creeps in, gets a slipper chucked at it and creeps out again.
She opened her eyes. “Hey. Mr Expert. How come you know so much about ghosts?”
He smiled charmingly at her. “It's a hobby, that's all. I happen to like poking around in old houses, looking for ghosts. See?”
“I can believe the bit about old houses. Bearing in mind that you sell them to people.”
“I'm a property developer,” he corrected her. “We buy old wrecks and restore them to their former glory.”
“Then sell them for a big, fat, profit.”
“Of course.”
“When we first met, at that dull party in Cambridge, you told me you knew all about ghosts and I didn't believe a word of it and I thought you were loony.”
“Then why did you chase me all the way back to London?”
“I certainly did not.” She took another swig of whisky. “Anyway, as I said, I thought it might make a story.” She stopped there, thinking that maybe she should change the subject. “You never did finish telling me that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Different types of ghost, you said. Remember?”
“Oh God, yes.” He tapped his head in mock despair. “Brain like a sieve. Yes, three types.”
“And are you going to tell me?”
“Well, you have the type that you can see, the type you can't see, and finally, of course, the type that you really don't want to see.”
She waited, but in vain. “Is that it?”
“Yes, that's it. That covers just about all paranormal activity, you know.”
“Well, that's nonsense.” She was slightly disgusted.
“Do you even know what a ghost is?” He demanded.
“Yes. It's a dead person.”
“No, no. Anything but.”
“Harry, now you're being silly.” Her headache was swelling up again, a monotonous aching in her skull. She let herself flop back and closed her eyes again.
Black and purple shadows swirled dizzyingly and left her feeling queasy. She swore silently and opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling. There were more shadows up there. Swirling in the murky light, shifting and merging into the filthy plasterwork.
Victoria coughed and wrinkled her nose as the unpleasant, sweet smell grew stronger.
“What's the matter?”
“That stink. Phew, can't you smell it?”
“The whole house stinks, old sport.”
“This is different. Something's rotting, somewhere in this horrible house.” The stench grew stronger. Her stomach complained and lurched suddenly, making her swallow hard.
Harry hadn't taken his eyes off her.
“I can't stand this,” she said. She dragged a handkerchief from her coat pocket and clamped it over her nose.
Harry followed her out of the lounge and opened the front door for her. She hurried outside, into the windblown gloom, and greedily sucked in the clean air.
He came up beside her. “What's the matter?”
“I feel sick,” she told him. “That horrible smell turns my stomach.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I just need some fresh air.” She looked at him. “Can't you smell it as well?”
Harry gazed levelly back. “Would it surprise you if I said no?”
“Now you're joking. It's strong enough to knock you over!”
“Only to you.”
She struggled for a reply.
“How's your headache?”
“It's a migraine. I get them now and then and how did you know I had a headache?”
“It's all over your face, old sport. Also, it fits the pattern.”
“What pattern?”
He pointed to the door. “Let's go back in and I'll tell you.”
Harry Miller was clearly playing some nasty, practical joke. She sat down on the old sofa again, feeling indignant that he should think her so gullible. “This had better be very good,” she warned him.
“I'll tell you what I think is happening,” he said. He retrieved something from the bag and peered closely at it.
“What is that?”
“A compass. Activity of any sort is always accompanied by magnetic anomalies.” He showed her. “See this?”
She looked at the compass dial. The needle was flickering, a quick movement every other second.
She sat back. “That doesn't prove anything.”
“It's all part of the pattern. Tell me, how often do you get these headaches?”
“Harry, they're migraines, I've had them since I was a girl.”
“But they come and go? Say, for instance, you're driving in the car and a headache will come on, then fade a second later?”
She hesitated. “So I get car sick.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you react to areas of high activity.” He was staring at her again.
“You think I'm picking up some ghostly presence like some, some paranormal crystal set?”
“I think so. Did I tell you who is supposed to be haunting this place?”
“No, you didn't.”
“Well, Auntie got the place cheap after the death of the previous occupant. She was an old woman who got sick one winter time and never recovered. She died of a fever, here in the house.”
“What's that got to do with a nasty smell, for God's sake?”
“I think you're picking up the echoes of what happened here.”
“Harry, I'm not psychic. I never saw a ghost in my life.”
“This had nothing to do with ghosts, Victoria! I told you already, this is not about death or souls or wandering spirits, that's all complete nonsense. The reality is that certain places can absorb events like a sponge and when the right person comes along, it all comes back out again.”
“That's rubbish, Harry. That's scary stuff for children's fairy tales.”
“For most of us, yes. But not for some. And not for you.”
She stared hard at him, searching his face for some sign of deceit. “Is that why you let me come here? Because you thought I might be psychic or something? So you could watch me like some laboratory experiment?“
He said nothing to that.
The intensity of her anger surprised even her. Bitterness welled up and soured her voice. “You must think me a complete fool, Harry.”
“No one thinks you're a fool, least of all me.”
“So you say.” She set her face into a scowl.
Harry sighed. “You wanted to see ghosts, you told me you did. So here we are. I wasn't trying to trick you into anything. But if you want to leave now, then just say so.”
“Good.” She stood up, pulling her coat sharply into position. She was fuming now. She hated being fooled and the thought of it made her furious. How dare he? Just how stupid did he think she was? She had to blink as her head suddenly throbbed again. She put up a hand and rubbed her temple as the aching grew stronger.
“I'm sorry if you're upset,” Harry was saying. He went to replace the compass in the bag, but then he stopped and stared at the dial. His face lifted in amazement. “Good grief,” he muttered.
The pounding in her head abruptly roared, rushing through her and leaving her shaking with the pain. She swayed, tottered backwards and sat heavily on the sofa.
“Are you all right? Victoria?”
“Hurts-” she managed to say, feebly patting her forehead. She sank back, closed her eyes. Blackness swamped her and the world drained away.
“Victoria?...” The voice faded. She was dimly aware that someone was holding her hand.
The blackness around her became a swirling and chaotic pattern of light and dark. Cobwebs enfolded her and the air was stilled in her chest. Her lungs ached but she couldn't draw a breath.
The blurred lights focussed and became ripples on a dark background. She was looking up and she saw her hands, reaching out, clutching at nothing. Skin, pale as moonlight, was stretched tight over the bones. Her lungs spasmed for air while the thudding in her head swelled and splintered into shards of brilliant agony, before it all faded back into the darkness.
continued...
