The Shadows Call Page 2

  The door to my immediate left opened into what could only be described as a cubbyhole. Not large enough for anything but a small storage space. I was about to turn away when I noticed that what I was looking at was actually an archaic lift mechanism, one of those old-fashioned dumbwaiters. I could imagine servants down in the basement scullery loading food into the dumbwaiter, then hauling the food up to the top floor by pulling on the ancient cords hanging alongside the lift. I leaned in for a closer look. I caught a draft on my face, gritty, tickly, as if I’d poked my head through a cobweb. I reared back, wiping at imagined creepy crawlies skittering across my flesh. I shut the door. Checked the facing door. It let into a dormer-style bedroom. It was bare of furniture and the wallpaper had been stripped back to the plaster. Somebody had scrawled graffiti on the walls.

  I backed out of the room and opened the door to the final room. My bedroom, I’d already decided. It was more spacious than the other uppermost rooms. Like the other bedroom it had been situated beneath the peaked roof, and had two old sash-style bay windows in recesses that overlooked the front street. The ceilings angled down to meet the tops of each window. In the wall to the side of the leftmost window was a tiny door that let into a crawl space under the slope of the roof. To my immediate right was another set of doors, which, when opened allowed entrance to a walk-in wardrobe built into the very walls of the house. The house was laid out in a strange fashion, but I enjoyed its quirky nature. As Muir noted earlier, it had character.

  My mind made up I turned.

  A shadow darkened the small hallway. Undeniably it was a male figure.

  I halted mid-stride.

  The floorboards creaked underfoot, as I recalled the ones on the stairs did. Yet I hadn’t heard Muir climbing the stairs. He was bigger built than I, heavier, I should have heard the groaning of the stairs and the scuff of his raincoat on the walls. I opened my mouth to speak, took a step and in correspondence, so did the shadow. It zipped left and out of my line of sight. Frowning, I poked my head out of the door, looking immediately left to the narrow stairwell. There was nobody there, no sound of anyone going down the stairs. Surprised for the second time in as many seconds, I went to the head of the stairs and peered down.

  Nobody. No sound. Nothing.

  It was impossible for anyone to descend the stairs in such a short time, not without raising a racket. I quickly turned and checked the other rooms. Nobody was in any of them.

  A cold prickle shivered up my body, and my guts clenched. There was something decidedly unnatural about that shadow.

  Back in the vestibule I checked around myself. I could see my own shadow; it was in triplicate, cast on two different doors and up a short strip of wall adjacent to the stairwell. The odd configuration of the bedrooms, sources of dim light leaking in from each angle, all conspired to form shadows where you wouldn’t expect them. That was it, I told myself. Mystery solved. Natural after all.

  Except it wasn’t.

  I conveniently disregarded the fact that my shadows were pale, grey, insubstantial, whereas the one I’d just witnessed was deep black, darker than night, two dimensional and freestanding.

  Now you’re just adding to it, I warned. You’re tired, in an unfamiliar place, and you know that your meds have had a few odd side effects.

  It was nothing.

  So why was I trembling?

  I shook off the uncanny sensation and went downstairs to get the legal paperwork started.

  Peter Muir was pleased. Sarah wasn’t. Later we agreed to disagree and split the difference. I gave her five pounds, but it cost her a promise she’d help me to move in to my new home.

  2

  The Door

  I moved into the house within a week.

  Muir eagerly accepted my signing of a year’s lease. Apparently the house was still registered as a commercial premises, but could be sub-let for occupation, and paying the lease fees was a legal necessity, but he gave me a discount on the first three months’ rental with the coda that I paid the council tax, utility bills, and made the place habitable at my own expense. It wasn’t as if I’d have to renovate the house, just throw around some paint, maybe fork out for some new carpets, and a few hours work with a mop and bucket would do for most of the rooms. It was still a lot of money to sign over in one go, but I didn’t mind paying up front: where else was I going to live for the low price I’d got it for? Muir delivered the keys into my hand by Thursday. My miserable boss at BathCo, Daniel Graham, wouldn’t give me any time off work, so I’d to wait until Friday evening to move in. I had an electric kettle, coffee and milk and a sleeping bag with me, but that sufficed. Saturday morning I began hauling my belongings from a rented storage unit in the back of my Volvo. Sarah had promised to help, but was notorious for finding it hard to get up in the morning, especially after a night out with our work colleagues. I wasn’t disappointed; I’d kind of expected it. But I was sure she’d turn up later.

  It suited me to be honest, because I wasn’t at my best. I hadn’t got much sleep, and it had nothing to do with camping out in the parlour, surrounded by cobwebs and the stink of must. Dreams had disturbed my rest; horrible nightmares that forced me awake, sweating rivers, my guts clenching in dread but with little memory of what had terrified me so much. All I could recall was clutching hands, a bloody face, and a red dress. I was so fatigued that I’d fall back asleep almost instantly, only to be wakened again by the recurring nightmare. I announced the dawn as I sat up with a shriek. The scream still echoed around the hollow room as I’d struggled out of my drenched sleeping bag, tremors stealing about the walls like furtive devils.

  It took three coffees and a quick wash in the kitchen sink to get me going, and I hoped that by the time Sarah did show up my bloodshot eyes would’ve cleared a bit.

  Because it was Saturday morning, there was no school run. The road was quiet and I was able to park outside the house. I’d placed a handwritten note in the windscreen to stave off any ticket-happy traffic wardens, explaining I was moving in and hadn’t yet arranged for a resident’s parking permit. I propped open the front door and carried boxes inside, depositing them in the defunct parlour room. I could distribute them to their proper locations later, once I’d cleaned out the junk and dust.

  I didn’t have many belongings. When I split from Catriona, I’d basically cleaned out my man cave, grabbed my clothing and toiletries and left the rest to her. She was still in our marital home in one of the upscale housing estates to the north of town with our children, Jake and Gemma, and they needed the furniture more than I did. I’d ordered a new bed and a settee and easy chair, to be delivered in the next few days, and had made a mental note to go shopping for kitchen appliances. First trip in the Volvo I’d brought my TV and DVD player, clothing, and other odds and ends. Another couple of trips to the storage unit would probably do it.

  My knee was playing up. I’d a deep-seated pain in the muscles above the patella. All the toing and froing, bending and twisting was playing havoc on the fragile make up of the joint. I popped some Naproxen, and tried to dry swallow them. They were the size of jellybeans, dry as chalk, and didn’t go down easily. The Lansoprazole capsules I also took inhibited the production of stomach acid, to protect me from being eaten alive from the inside out, because the first meds had the habit of stripping my stomach lining. Wonderful stuff.

  In the parlour I found a clear spot between some stacked boxes and sat on the floorboards, my back to the wall. I’d moved the abandoned office clutter into the back yard, except for the computer monitor. I’d heard some people collected old monitors and stuff and wondered if it would fetch a few quid on EBay or some other on-line market place. I doubted the Classic worked, but someone might buy it to convert to a fish tank or something: they do that these days, apparently.

  Rubbing my knee, I took a look around my new home. Sarah had been correct in her summation, but only at face value. The place was a dump, and would take hard work to bring it up to a livable standard, at least on
e where I could have my son and daughter over, but on deeper scrutiny I spotted original features everywhere. Some people would die for those deep skirting boards, the picture rail, and the tiled fireplace partly concealed behind the ugly gas fire. The window frames were original, as were most of the windows. The glass was very old, warped in places, flawed, but that added to the charm. One window had been replaced at some time in the near past. The clear glass was at odds with its slightly smoky neighbours. Even the door that led into the reception vestibule was aged. It wasn’t like the cheap crap you could buy these days from DIY superstores; this door was heavy, with four recessed panels and a circular brass handle. It had a snib, so that once the door was closed you could lock it in place. Maybe back in the day the sort of entertainment that happened in this room demanded a degree of privacy. Those enlightened Victorians were up to all sorts of kinky stuff, I’d heard.

  I was studying the door from my seated position when it slammed shut. I watched its abrupt swing, heard the gunshot crack, but still jumped in fright, swearing out loud.

  Remembering I’d left the front door propped open for easy access, logic told me that a sudden breeze had caused a shift in the atmosphere within the house, and the door had slammed as a result. Made sense to me. I pushed up, using the wall to steady myself, and limped across the room. Best I closed the front door while I took a break. While I was in the parlour with the door closed anyone could walk in uninvited and have a stroll around the house. They’d be disappointed by what they found, but it was still mine. Private.

  I turned the handle and pulled.

  The door didn’t move.

  ‘What the…?’

  I twisted the knob again, pulled harder. The door resisted me.

  I checked the snib mechanism but it was in the open position. I could see where the latch was seated in the equally old brass retainer, and when I twisted the handle watched it pop in and out. Nothing was inhibiting the lock, or the hinges that were visible.

  I twisted the knob and yanked at the door. It didn’t budge.

  ‘Bastard!’

  OK. Calm down, I told myself. The house is old and has been sealed for a long time. You can smell the damp; the door’s probably swollen and has jammed in the frame when it slammed shut. All it would take was a little more energy and the door would pop open.

  I set my feet, got one hand on the knob and the other on the frame. I pulled.

  The door opened.

  An inch.

  Then it was yanked out of my grasp and slammed shut with equal ferocity.

  ‘Jesus, that’s some draught.’

  It was my fault for leaving the bloody outer door open.

  I yanked again.

  Nothing.

  I tried to jostle the door out of the frame. My knee twinged.

  I swore again, which did nothing to move the door or soothe my anger.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. But then so was talking to an inanimate object. I put my back into it this time, but the door remained resolutely jammed. I could feel the knob working loose and let go. All I needed was to pull the bloody knob off and I would be well and truly trapped. I swore again, backed away, giving the door sour glances as I thought the problem through.

  The hinges were set on my side of the frame, the door opened into the room. It was jammed in the frame, and the requisite pressure to haul it open would probably be more than the knob could handle, and it would pull off in my hand. But from the other side, it would take little effort to push open the door.

  Dipping my hand in my pocket I pulled out my mobile phone.

  Phone Sarah, I thought. She was due to arrive any way. Tell her to come in and give the door a nudge from the other side.

  Yeah, right! That would give Sarah a good old laugh. I wouldn’t hear the last of it. She’d tell everyone at work how she had to rescue my sorry arse. I shoved away my phone.

  While the side windows overlooked the alley that led round to the backyard and parking garage, the front windows looked out onto the street. Maybe there was somebody out there who I could ask to come inside and give the door a push. I strode to the front windows, had to clamber over a stack of boxes and peered out. Traffic was building up, but I couldn’t see one pedestrian. Bloody hell, didn’t anyone walk anywhere these days? Then again someone could be just out of my line of sight. I reached for the hasp, threw it open and then applied pressure to the rope that would raise the window. The rope was rotten. It snapped off, frayed and brittle.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I groaned, looking at the length of rope in my hand. I wadded it up and stuffed it on the windowsill. More traffic went by but nobody on foot.

  Backing from the window I pulled out my mobile. There was nothing for it. Sarah could laugh all she wanted.

  No. I was determined I’d try one last time.

  I put away my phone and approached the door with as determined a stride as my gimpy knee would allow.

  ‘OK, you stubborn git. You’re going to open this time or I’ll kick you off your bloody hinges!’

  Grasping the handle and pushing my left shoulder to the frame, I took in a deep breath. I twisted the knob and yanked.

  The door swung inward effortlessly.

  Too effortlessly. I’d put so much in to the act that I staggered backwards, and went down on my backside on the floorboards. Dust wafted up around me.

  I could hear laughter.

  Faint mocking laughter.

  I struggled up, gave the door a quick look and saw it standing open as it had earlier. I jammed my foot against it, holding it wide as I bent and peeked out into the vestibule.

  Nobody was there.

  The laughter must have filtered in from outside, maybe from the neighbouring insurance brokers’ office. More likely it was in my head. I pictured Sarah having a great laugh at my expense, and was pleased she hadn’t arrived on time to witness my prat fall.

  Stepping into the hall, I closed the door behind me. I opened it again. No problem whatsoever. I checked the edge of the door, then the frame, looking for marks where the wood had swollen and stuck in the frame. There was nothing evident. I closed the door. Pulled it to me, thinking to replicate the slam. When I turned the handle again the door swung open with no hindrance. If anything, when shut, the door didn’t even fit snug in the frame; I could see light around the edges and the latch jiggled freely.

  I shook my head.

  If I didn’t know otherwise I’d say that someone had been standing at this side of the door holding it shut.

  That was a crazy notion, and I immediately discarded the idea. Still, I closed the front door, and made a quick search of the house for trespassers. I found neither hide nor hair of anyone, as I suspected I wouldn’t. On my travels I found a wedge of wood, and I returned to the parlour intending to prop open the door so I didn’t suffer a repeat performance. I opened the door wide and pushed the wedge under, then kicked it in tight. I stood wiping dust off my palms, inspecting my handiwork.

  Giving a satisfied nod, I turned.

  It was there again.

  The shadow.

  Man shaped.

  Full black.

  It stood no more than two yards from me, and malevolence radiated from it in waves. Full of hatred and rage, it was seeking a target.

  It lunged, fingers coming for my throat.

  I cried out, stumbling backwards, and the shadow’s hands became claws before my face.

  Then it was gone.

  Quicker than the sob of relief that rose from my chest it had disappeared, but the atmosphere was redolent with its uncanny passing. In my head I heard the mocking laughter once more. But was it in my head?

  3

  The Phone

  ‘You saw a ghost?’

  Sarah’s eyes twinkled, but I was pleased to note it wasn’t with humour, more excitement at the prospect I was sharing my home with a supernatural entity. I’d forgotten she was into all that woo-woo stuff, watching all those paranormal TV programmes on the alternative TV chan
nels, and even attending a few sessions at a local spiritualist church whenever another hokey medium was in town. One lunchtime at work, she’d tried telling me all about those sessions, how the medium had known things they possibly couldn’t have known, until she got the message that I thought the entire subject was bollocks. Having mentioned my sighting of this shadow figure, she was over the moon: it gave validity to her beliefs and made me look the one with egg on my chin.

  ‘I didn’t say I saw a ghost,’ I corrected her. ‘I said I saw a shadow.’

  She leaned towards me, her face serious. ‘And you’re happy to stay at the house after that?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m not scared. Any way, I’ve paid a year’s lease and I forfeit it if I move out before the end of the term.’

  ‘Nutter,’ she said.

  We were sitting outside a Starbucks in the centre of town. Sarah was smoking. I was trying hard not to. It was cold, breezy. We were seated at a metal table on uncomfortable chairs: kind of de rigueur treatment of smokers these days, being banished from the comfy loungers and low tables inside. But it suited me fine. There were few other customers sitting out in the wind and the threat of rain. Beads of moisture still stood on the table between our coffee cups, evidence of an earlier shower, and there was more to come. It meant that our loony conversation wouldn’t be overheard.

  Sarah sparked up her lighter and touched it to her second cigarette since sitting down. She exhaled blue smoke. ‘You said it was shaped like a person?’

  ‘So what? It doesn’t make it a ghost. It was probably my shadow.’ I hadn’t told her about the similar experience I’d had on my first visit to the house, or that this latest shadow had gone for my throat, and had no intention of mentioning it either. ‘There are windows on two sides, so the light comes in at odd angles. Maybe there was a brief break in the clouds and my shadow was cast from a different angle. Then the clouds closed in and that explains why it disappeared again.’