The Shadows Call

  THE SHADOWS CALL

  By

  Matt Hilton

  THE SHADOWS CALL

  By

  MATT HILTON

  Published by Sempre Vigile Press

  Copyright © 2014 Matt Hilton

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Although based on true events, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image © 2014 Matt Hilton

  Cover design © 2014 Matt Hilton/Nicola Birrell-Smith

  The Shadows Call by Matt Hilton

  From the Cayton

  Chapter 1 The House

  Chapter 2 The Door

  Chapter 3 The Phone

  Chapter 4 Sarah’s Phone

  Chapter 5 Antigonish

  Chapter 6 Jack in the Box

  Chapter 7 Cold Light

  Chapter 8 Down the Chute

  Chapter 9 The Chase

  Chapter 10 Unattainable

  Chapter 11 Night Terrors

  Chapter 12 Show and Tell

  Chapter 13 Collision

  Chapter 14 Lies and Oxymorons

  Chapter 15 Is there Anybody there?

  Chapter 16 I Want You Back

  Chapter 17 Caressed by a Ghostly Hand

  Chapter 18 Things that go Bump in the Night

  Chapter 19 Dream on, Casanova

  Chapter 20 Crimson Teeth

  Chapter 21 The Writing’s on the Wall

  Chapter 22 Chinks in the Crimson Glass

  Chapter 23 Bloody Old Dive

  Chapter 24 Nuisance Neighbours

  Chapter 25 Vengeful Spirit

  Chapter 26 Trust your Senses

  Chapter 27 White Noise

  Chapter 28 Lies, damned Lies and Fantasy

  Chapter 29 Ghost in the Machine

  Chapter 30 PK Nuts

  Chapter 31 Mortar Shells

  Chapter 32 The Twisted Truth

  Chapter 33 Guilt of the Heart and Mind

  Chapter 34 An Effigy of Straw

  Chapter 35 Professing my Love

  Chapter 36 The Hammer and the Crown

  Chapter 37 Fox and Hound

  After

  Acknowledgements and Thanks

  About the Author

  Other Books by Matt Hilton

  “Everything that we see is a shadow

  cast by that which we do not see.”

  Martin Luther King, Jr.

  “What is right is not always popular

  and what is popular is not always right”

  Albert Einstein

  This book is dedicated to Mike Kirkpatrick.

  “Seek and you shall find.”

  From the Cayton

  I was never a man who believed in ghosts, even when I first stood face to face with one of them. I put the weird sighting down to fatigue, hallucination, possibly a side effect of the medication I was taking. To me, ghosts were the product of over-active imaginations, wishful thinking, and Hollywood scriptwriters. I mean, to believe in ghosts you had to believe in an afterlife, right? Well, I didn’t. Dead meant dead. The end.

  Back then I viewed the subject with a closed mind and lack of understanding. I thought ghosts were supposed to be the restless spirits of dead people. Well, apparently that’s only part of the story. I’ve come to learn that “ghost” is a catchall term for a number of supernatural and paranormal phenomena. It seems I’d always grasped at the wrong end of the stick.

  There’s nothing wrong with having a hefty dose of scepticism. Even after what I’ve come to experience, I also know that most of what is presented as proof of ghosts is nonsense, misidentification and, yes, wishful thinking. Surf the internet and you’ll find a plethora of alleged ghost sightings. Most of them are outright hoaxes or pranks; the large remainder of them misidentified natural phenomena. Very few of those videos and photographs purporting to contain the image of a ghost really do. But then there is the minority that contain something otherworldly, that defies scientific explanation, and that I now know are the real deal.

  Real, yes.

  But I don’t say these particular ghosts are the spirits of deceased people.

  No. What I came to believe in is something else entirely.

  Ever heard of the shadow people?

  Yes? Then I still doubt you have a clue as to what they really are.

  If you have an open mind, I’ll show you.

  1

  The House

  ‘It isn’t exactly fit for purpose, Jack.’ My work colleague, Sarah King, hadn’t even got out of the car yet and was already being dismissive of the house.

  ‘It’s a bit big,’ I had to agree, ‘but I’d still like to take a look around.’

  ‘Your choice,’ Sarah said, wiping condensation off the window for a better view of the tall Victorian dwelling. ‘You’re the one who’ll be living there. If you ask me, though, it’s a bit of a dump.’

  I shrugged, turning off the engine. ‘That’s probably why it’s in my price range.’

  In the last decade there had been some gentrification of Carlisle city centre, and rental prices had gone up to reflect the kind of clientele moving into the centrally located dwellings. The less than salubrious tenants had been pushed out to the fringes, and where this street had once been a desired location it was now turning into bedsit land for those on a budget, or on benefits. To be fair, I’d have found a nicer home nearer to the bars and cafes, but with it the noise when the nightclubs spilled out. I preferred a quiet life. Sarah didn’t.

  ‘Have you checked that you get the full building?’

  ‘I get sole tenancy. All four floors.’

  ‘I still think it’s a bit much for one man.’

  ‘I need the extra space for when my kids come over, or if any friends stay the night.’

  She didn’t immediately answer, and for a second I feared I’d overstepped the mark. I wasn’t suggesting that she could stay over…not exactly. Except she hadn’t caught the hint, or if she had she chose to ignore it, because she screwed up her nose and said, ‘You’d really let your children stay here?’

  ‘We don’t know what it’s like inside,’ I said, eyeing the grubby exterior walls and flaking window frames, ‘maybe it won’t be too bad.’

  ‘Fiver says your wrong.’ Sarah stuck out her hand.

  ‘Tenner,’ I said. ‘Let’s make a bet worthwhile.’

  ‘A tenner it is,’ she agreed, and I clutched her hand and gave it a shake. I was a tad slow in releasing it and our eyes met briefly. Hers were the colour of toffee. Sarah’s mouth slowly turned up at one corner. ‘Remember: I don’t take cheques, you loser.’

  We got out of my car. It was a three-year-old Volvo V70 estate. Not exactly a stylish car, being on the conservative side of bland, but it suited me the way I thought the house would. It was spacious. Some of my belongings were already in boxes in the back, but there was room for another three passengers and more. I enjoyed my personal space: one of the problems that had finished my nine years marriage to Catriona.

  We stood together on the pavement, craning up at the three visible floors and peaked roof of the house. It stood on the corner of a junction, the end house in a terrace. Next door the building had been converted to office space, a well-known insurance
brokerage firm having a shop front on the ground floor. The stonework was black with exhaust fumes, the sash window frames peeling paint, the front door scuffed. But the house still stood strong and sturdy, and had done for more than a hundred and fifty years.

  ‘Welcome to the Bates Motel,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Give it a chance. Things always look worse when it’s raining.’

  It wasn’t fully raining, just a dull drizzle that was a regular feature of northern England. Grey clouds crowned the roof of the house, setting everything in shadow. The windows were blind, slate grey with no colour to reflect.

  ‘Is that your landlord?’ Sarah’s voice was a stage whisper. But her elbow to my ribs and grandiose leer towards the unkempt man was none too subtle.

  I watched the man struggle out of a Nissan Micra parked further up the street. He’d parked in a disabled bay, one of the only free spots at roadside. The car was far too small for him. He held an old-fashioned clipboard over his head as he locked the car, then turned to us. If he was trying to keep his hair dry it was a waste of effort. He barely had a few tufts over each ear. The top of his head was completely bald, mottled brown in places. He wore thick-framed spectacles that were too dark for his pale complexion and bushy white moustache. Over grey trousers, cream shirt, and navy blue tie, he wore a rumpled raincoat à la Columbo from that old TV show. He’d too much girth for the coat and it strained at his shoulders as he held up the clipboard. He rushed towards us as if the rain was acid. Then again, in this grim part of town, the atmosphere was probably polluted. I unconsciously batted raindrops off my forehead, wiped drips from my nose.

  ‘Mr Newman?’ The man offered a smile as he extended his free hand. He did so without halting his forward momentum. I took his hand in a short greeting, and was hauled along with him as he steered me for the front steps. ‘Should we get out of this bloody rain?’

  We were up the short path and under the pillared porch before I could confirm my identity. ‘John Newman. But everyone calls me Jack. This is my friend Sarah. You don’t mind if she takes a look around with me?’

  Peter Muir, my prospective landlord barely glanced at Sarah. Sarah’s granddad was Jamaican. Her skin tone was on the darker side of cream, and she had a natural kink to her hair that she loathed. I thought she was very pretty, but Muir was unimpressed. ‘Always pays to hear a woman’s opinion on these kind of things,’ he said, sounding as if he meant the absolute opposite.

  ‘Charming,’ Sarah said under her breath.

  Muir unlocked the front door. It was an old door, probably pre-war. It was maroon now, but had been painted dozens of times over the years, and I could see a veritable rainbow where the door was chipped around the latches and kickboard. It still had an ancient cast iron knocker and letterbox. Two small arched windows at the top were designed to let in light, but they were opaque with grime. When he opened the door and we stepped into a short vestibule it was no less gloomy than I expected.

  Sarah grunted under her breath, but a glance showed a gleam burning in her gaze. She was confident that she was going to be a full ten pounds richer by the time we left.

  Kicking to one side a drift of junk mail, Muir reached for a light switch. It was almost as if he was crossing his fingers as he flicked the switch. A light blazed, chasing back the gloom. The cheerful glow could do little for the smell of mould and damp paper. Muir appeared pleasantly surprised that we had power.

  ‘How long ago did your cleaner die?’ Sarah was shameless.

  Muir looked at her fully for the first time. From the rapid blinking behind his spectacles he didn’t know how to take her brand of humour. He chose to ignore it. He beckoned us further inside and closed the door. ‘Right,’ he said, and his voice was more Geordie than it had sounded on the phone when first we spoke. ‘I’ll give you the grand tour, shall I?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, giving him the lead.

  Sarah grasped my elbow. ‘Remember to wipe your feet, Jack…on the way out.’

  If Muir heard her, he didn’t let on. I just shook my head. She teased me, poking out the tip of her tongue. It took an effort to look away. When I did, Muir was already disappearing into a room to my right. He turned on lights as he went.

  The first room was what was once called a “parlour”, except that was a bit pretentious now. Back in the nineteenth century when the house was built, it was seen as a status symbol to have a parlour – literally an audience or entertainment chamber – but they had declined in usage through the latter decades of the twentieth century. In keeping with this decline, the parlour had become an office space, sometime in the late 1980s, judging by the décor. The carpets had been lifted, displaying bare floorboards, and a stone hearth extending out a metre from the fireplace. A gas fire had replaced the original coal fire, but it would need servicing before I ever struck a match to it. Some Formica tables were pushed up against one wall, as well as a small stack of generic plastic office chairs. They all carried a layer of dust. An ancient Apple Macintosh Classic computer was deposited in one corner, and a printer that looked as if it had been salvaged from Noah’s Ark. They were museum pieces, or junk, dependent on your outlook. Dusty venetian blinds covered the windows.

  ‘As you can see, it’s a good sized room…’ Muir was giving the full spiel, but I ignored his patter.

  The place was a dump, but I could see the potential, and I was currently arguing the pros and cons. Muir led us to the living room. It was similar in size and dimensions as the parlour. Here the fire had been more recently replaced though: this gas burner didn’t look as much of a death trap as the first, but you never could tell. I made semi-pleasantries with Muir as he led us to the kitchen.

  Sarah remained quiet as she scuffed along behind us. Her silence said it all.

  The kitchen was small and the décor in keeping with everything else I’d seen. Dour. But it would do.

  ‘This isn’t the original kitchen,’ Muir announced. He motioned down. ‘Back in the old days all the cooking was done downstairs. You get to use the cellar if you want, but the previous tenants boarded it up. Won’t take much work to open it up again.’

  A rear door opened onto a cobbled yard. Tall brick walls hemmed it in. A gate allowed access to a lane where Muir had mentioned there was a garage where I could keep my car. Someone had planted shrubs in terracotta pots, but several seasons had since passed since they’d had any care and the plants were now shrivelled wispy stalks.

  Muir indicated the yard. ‘It might not look that inviting during the winter, but it’s a lovely sun trap in the summer.’

  What he didn’t mention was that the north-facing house rarely got any sun at the front. Such features didn’t matter to me though. I just nodded eagerly. ‘Can you show me the bedrooms?’

  ‘Aye,’ Muir said. Then he shrugged. ‘Unless you want to have a look around yourself?’

  I agreed to the offer.

  ‘Bathroom is on the first landing before you reach the next floor,’ Muir said, ‘all the other rooms are bedrooms, or spare rooms, whatever you choose to use them for.’

  He was couching his phrases in a way that said the house was already mine. To be fair, I was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Want to take a look around with me?’

  Sarah gave me a dour look. ‘I’ve seen all I need to.’ She slipped on a fake smile for Muir. ‘Lovely old place, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think it has…’ Muir offered an equally fake grin. ‘What is it they say: it has character?’

  ‘So has Mickey Mouse,’ Sarah whispered for my ears alone. ‘Just like the character who’s supposed to maintain the dump.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I told her. ‘I just want to take a quick look around.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ she frowned. ‘You’ve already made up your bloody mind.’

  ‘I like the place,’ I said.

  ‘You just don’t want to honour our bet. Whether you take the house or not, I still win. You owe me a tenner, Jacko.’

  I gave her a nonc
ommittal wink, turned my back on her and headed for the stairs. Years earlier during a rugby match I tore my ACL – my anterior cruciate ligament – in my right knee. Stupidly I hadn’t had it looked at by a surgeon, so it still troubled me now. Naproxen kept the pain at bay, but gave my stomach jip, to a point I had to take a second medicine called Lansoprazole to stave off the sharp pains in my gut. There were also some other pills I’d to take, the names of which were unpronounceable, but I’d given up on them when they proved ineffective. I went up the stairs feeling the strain in my weakened knee, thinking that the exercise could only do me good over time.

  I found the bathroom on the first landing as Muir said. It wasn’t an original feature from the Victorian era when the building was erected. When we’d looked out on the backyard, I was aware without taking much notice of an overhang and I could now see that it was where a suspended bathroom had been tacked on the back of the house. It was a narrow structure, with room for a bath and separate washbasin pedestal. At the far end a second door opened into a small cubicle where I discovered a toilet. I made a mental note to purchase bleach to clean the stained bowl, and a new seat to replace the faded wooden one that looked hand carved by a less than skillful carpenter.

  Moving from the bathroom I noticed for the first time a stained glass window above the door. It was unlike those seen in churches, more like a mosaic of opaque red glass, but was a nice original feature all the same. Roseate light made the next landing cheerier than downstairs. When Muir had described the bathroom’s location he’d only been partly correct. It was actually situated a few feet lower than the first upper floor on a half-landing, and I had to negotiate a few more steps before I reached the landing proper. Here I found two more rooms – bedrooms or living rooms I couldn’t decide – and another smaller room at the front right corner that I earmarked for a storage closet. A door to the right of it opened to a narrow stairwell that led up to the final floor. As I went up I could feel my shoulders touch the walls on both sides. Each step creaked. At the top I found a small vestibule and was greeted by three blind doors. If I’d closed the stairwell door behind me, closed my eyes and done a pirouette, I would have had no sense of direction and no idea which route led back down. I left the stairwell door open.