soulsinger's blog: "Short stories"

THE TOWER Her footsteps trudged through the gravel. She looked around at the surroundings, trying to find a word other than picturesque, with which to describe them. She was struggling, though. Maybe it was the brilliant sunshine, or the warmth on her face. Perhaps it was her frame of mind. Maybe the fact that she had just been given her own assignment for the very first time was positively effecting her outlook. This place was beautiful. Stunning. An Edenesque place, a heaven on earth. She couldn’t believe that this was the ‘most haunted place in Britain’. The spacious lawns spread backwards from the lane and opened up into wide, manicured gardens. Flowers of every colour and shade imaginable treated the eyes, leading them along the paths and under the trees. The trees were exactly the right shade of green and provided for the abundant fauna the perfect amount of cool shade. The line of small trees led all the way along the gravelled path to the house. Oh the house! This was the most gorgeous house that Emma had ever seen. There was no tarmac, no cement driveway. The gravel surrounded the house completely. A giant moat of limestone white and grey that shone in the glare of the sun. This was possibly one of the few recent additions, she thought. And it wasn’t regular gravel, either. It had a lightness to it. A softer feel under the feet. It took her back to the school trips to Portland Bill in Dorset with the extended beeches of shale. Maybe she could get some like this for her own garden? She crouched to pick up a small sample. Huh. Shells. Tiny, miniscule shells. How pretty and, she tried to resist the word, quaint. How many must there be here? Millions, certainly. Billions? But then, Lord Bramley was an exceedingly wealthy man. Would I get to meet him, she wondered. The three-storey house should have been imposing yet the myriad of climbers that hugged the building brought it closer to earth, somehow, as if it had grown out of the ground. The timbers were original and were not tarred black anymore but were blackened with age and as hard as stone. Even the windows looked to be the original frames and the glass was arranged in thick, misty diamonds. She remembered a physics lesson, years ago at school, putting her hand up and informing the class in no uncertain terms that glass was a liquid, actually and you could see on old buildings where the glass bulged at the bottom through gravity. Much to the amusement of the rest of the class. On closer inspection, she could see this had happened to the small pains in the lower floor windows. How great it was to be proved right and to see the thickening first hand. This was a very old house and the estate had remained practically unchanged for at least five hundred years. Before that, there had been an old farm, which had been overseen by the nearby monastery. Evidence of their ancient practices could still be seen around the estate. The orchards, that stretched away to the left, had been growing there since William the Conqueror. The twenty-acre wood at the back of the house was all that was left of the forest that had once been a Royal hunting ground, even before William. Within the small wood, there were still some remnants of the foresters and wood folk that dated back a thousand years ago and more. There were tall earth mounds dotted throughout the estate that were commonly thought of as pagan burial mounds and druidic worship sites. Even the monastery, which was well over a thousand years old, occupied a site that had been prominent within the community before even the Romans arrived. As she looked around, she began to feel the history. She breathed it in like a warm mist. Every way she turned, every sight she saw, transported her to a time long passed. And right at that moment, as she stood and looked around her, she felt something different. Something darker. As her breath quickened, the beauty of her surroundings began slipping from her mind. The sun dimmed, the trees blackened and the birds stopped singing. A wave of despondency swept over her. Her legs were made of stone. The Earth was reaching up and grasping at her, tearing at her, pulling at her, dragging her down, suffocating, sucking out her life. “Can I ‘elp you ma’am?” She snapped back to the present. The sun was blistering still, the birds were still tweeting delicately amongst the trees. And an old man, who looked rather like an old bent, gnarled, apple tree himself stood beside her, waiting for a reply. He sucked on a thin brown roll-up that looked older than he was. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I must have had a funny turn” “Aye, That’ll ‘appen” He nodded sagely. “I’m Emma. I’m here to do the article on the hauntings?” She held out her delicate, moisturised, manicured hand in greeting. He didn’t take it. “I’m here to see the Lord? Up at the tower? The Devil’s Room!” She extended her fingers still waiting for the handshake. “No-one goes up the tower.” She frowned. This wasn’t going well. She smiled again, her beautiful stainless teeth shining in the sunlight. She batted her eyelids as if it would make any difference to this gnarly old man. She held out her hand again. “Please?” The old man stared at her hand, turned away and began shuffling towards the back of the house. “You’ll be followin’ me, then, ma’am.” Oh well, she thought. Old people had their habits. Best just to go along with it. She scrabbled for her dictaphone in her bag, took a breath and followed. For an old man, he moved surprisingly quickly. He walked as a tree would, with a limp in both legs. Something that, until now, Emma had thought was impossible. He held his arms high up his body as a jogger would. He paddled his hands through the air as if through water. Maybe that explained the speed, Emma thought. “Wait! Please, sir.” He didn’t slow down. She held out the dictaphone towards him and raised her voice. “Sir? How about a formal introduction? I’m Emma. Emma Taylor? From the Express?” “Aye, that’ll be you”, he mumbled without turning round. “Okay. You must be…” “The Keeper, they call me, so they do. I look after these here parts for the Lord” An answer! He must mean Lord Bramley. “Is he here today? Will I be able to meet him?” “Aye. You’ll meet him soon enough. Tonight.” “Great. He’s coming to the tower, then?” “Aye. He’ll be there”. Her first assignment, beautiful sun, fantastic surroundings, spending the night with a young wealthy aristocrat. The day was getting better by the minute! The old man had led her straight towards the small wood without a pause. “Hello? Sir? I’m just going to make a quick phone call. Before we enter the wood.” She pulled her mobile out and speed-dialled. The old man stopped and pointed at the wood. “In here, ma’am. Just follow the path. That’s what you do.” He nodded, turned once more and continued on his way. The phone was ringing. “Dave Wiggins Editor. Shoot!” “David! How corny is that?” She laughed. “Come on Ems, I’m trying.” He said, defensively. “It really doesn’t suit you. What happened to my cuddly bear?” “Please, Emma!” “Emma? You never used to call me that. Being a bit serious now, are we?” “Emma!” He snapped. “I’m busy. What do you want.” “Fine!” and she began filling in the details of the day so far. She was used to him being snappy. It had been the reason for their split. Since he had become editor, he had no time for anyone. It still didn’t feel right being away from him. They had been such a good team, too. “Have you seen anything yet? Anything at all?” He interrogated. “Look. Ghost hunting isn’t a five-minute thing, you know. It takes a bit of patience.” “I don’t give a toss.” “Dave! Don’t you dare.” “Well, it’s not exactly front page news, is it?” “You told me this could be a great story.” “I meant it would be a good first story with you flying solo. I can’t drop you in at the deep end. Not yet. This’ll suit you. Just talk to the locals, get some spine chilling ghost stories and get back here. Capiche?” “God, Dave, you’re such an arsehole. How did we ever get together?” “My looks.” He brushed off the insults so easily, now. “Now this bloke…” “Keeper, he’s called.” “Yeah. Keeper. Sean Bean. He’s young, is he?” Emma had a quick flash of Lady Chatterley’s lover and her game-keeper. She had always had a things about Sean Bean. But she wouldn’t play those games with Dave. She didn’t care how much of an idiot he was, she wasn’t going to start playing jealousy games. “No. Actually, he’s about a hundred and fifty years old and looks like a tree. Okay?” “What kind of tree?” “Does it bloody matter? I’m not into trees!” “Okay. That’s alright then. Keep me posted anyway. And try not to smoke.” “What’s the matter? Can’t bear to be without me?” “Yeah right” “Anyway. He’s taking me to the tower.” “Sounds scary. Hang on. Isn’t that, like, the most haunted place in Britain?” “Yeah. So?” “People have gone missing and everything?” “Yeah, right. Drugs, pranks, murders. No ghosts.” “Emma. Nobody goes up to Tower.” “You sound just like my hundred year old guide.” “Hmm. Thanks. Be Careful. Please. I’ll catch you later.” Dave put the phone down. Don’t smoke? Don’t bloody smoke? That was it! That was really, finally it! She felt like screaming. That bastard. He was such a patronising, stuck up, ignorant, obnoxious, up-his-own-arse wind-up merchant. How could she ever have fallen for him? How? She whipped the unopened cigarette packet from her bag, ripped off the rapping, pulled out the foil and practically sucked a cigarette from the box. Ah. That first drag. Her eyes half-closed in chemical orgasm as she breathed in the hot comforting smoke. Her limbs became heavily relaxed and she leant against a nearby tree. Oh well, three months up the spout. Who cares, she thought. It’s only one. My last one. It was so good. Like an internal aromatherapy course. Her boiling blood began to cool and she once more had full control over her faculties. She blew little smoke rings into the still air. The sun was beginning to set as she finished her cigarette, savouring every breath in, every small head rush, every breath out. She threw the fag-end down and trod on it into the ground. She thought better of contaminating this place and picked it up, placing it in her pocket. “Right. This way, then.” And she began to make her way into the wood. The wood was quite sparse now. There were glades and small ponds throughout. The orange glow was beautifully diffused by the trees. It reminded her of that old song Dave used to sing to her. Georgia On My Mind. It looked as if the old keeper had disappeared. “Hello?” She called. Oh well. She was bound to catch up with him soon. It would only take half an hour to walk through the entire wood. She pulled out another cigarette, lit it and took a puff. “Mmmm. Georgia…” She sang… “Georgia, the whole day through…” Then anotehr big puff. “Just an old sweet song…” the smoke left a trail behind her in the motionless air… “keeps Georgia on my mind…” The ground was started to rise a little now. This must be the small hill leading up to the watch-tower. She had heard the stories about this old place and there had been many sightings along this very path. The monastery and its friends had been less than friendly to the remnants of the ancient pagan faiths. She had been told of screams in the night, strange lights, monks floating above the ground. There had also been reports of stones and sticks pelting the house, all thrown from here. There were groans and moans and people collapsing with heart-attacks through fright. Lights were seen floating directly above the tower itself or glowing within it. Luckily for Emma, she didn’t believe in any of that rubbish. She approached the top of the small hill and the path began bending round the hill in an anti-clockwise direction. Emma could see the tower up ahead but there was still no sign of the keeper. He must have continued up to the ‘Devil’s Room’ at the top of the tower. It wasn’t surprising, Emma thought, that people gave in to these insane, illogical fears when places have names like that. It set people up, putting them in a frame of mind that was receptive to suggestion. And if they were superstitious, infirm, or insane, then of course, they would interpret just about anything as supernatural. She pushed slightly harder on her thighs to climb the final few metres of Tower Hill. She stopped, turned, and looked across the treetops to the estate beyond. The sun had all but disappeared, still spreading its deep golden fingers out to anyone, soothing them, promising a warm welcoming return in just a few hours. She sat with her back against the cold hard stone of the tower and lit one more cigarette. She sighed deeply and felt the wind brush gently across her hair. It reminded her of Dave. They had been a romantic couple, once. They would stay out till dawn, taking long walks in the park, eat chips by the sea with the seagulls singing their song. She remembered those times so vividly. She could still hear the seagull’s nostalgic calls. Before the paper had taken over their lives. She realised now for the first time that in her hectic go-getter, eat-on-the-run, no time for family life, she was totally alone. She wished Dave was here with her. The darkness had already smothered the wood below and was creeping slowly up the hill towards her. She scratched the cigarette out on one of the large foundation stones and stood up. She pulled her dicta-phone and note-pad out, ready for the night ahead. As she walked around the tower to the archway, she couldn’t help but feel a little unprepared. She had been promised that Lord Bramley would be bringing supplies; hot drinks, camping beds, lights and the like. She hoped it would be soon. She paused for one moment before entering. The stone stairway was dark and very steep. Now she was here, on her own, she was beginning to feel a little nervous. “The Keeper’s here and the Lord will be here soon. It’ll be okay. I’m a journalist. Objective, cool, professional.” She pressed record on her dicta-phone, took a deep breath and stepped in. “David, isn’t it? Pleased to meet you.” The tall, blond Lord Bramley smiled as he shook Dave’s hand. Dave eyed him suspiciously, trying not to give too much away, trying to pick up those tell-tale signals. “Hiya. Yeah. Cheers for meeting me, er…” “Just call me Robert.” “Thanks. So, do you know where she is?” “No. I afraid not.” Bramley frowned.. “We were meant to meet yesterday but she never came to the house. Is there some problem?” “No. No.” I’ll try to catch him off guard. “I’m just trying to catch up with her, you know. We had an argument, you see.” “Oh, I am sorry. I do you hope you manage to rectify everything. She seemed like a nice girl, when we talked. I was actually looking forward to meeting her. A rare thing for me, unfortunately. Especially regarding journalists.” Did Bramley’s eyes narrow then? Lord Peter Bramley, whatever his name was, was beginning to annoy Dave already. He talked in an aristocratic drone that buzzed in his ears. He also seemed to use four words where one should be more than enough. There was something else about him too, Dave thought. An air of immorality. He sensed that Bramley’s life had no boundaries or restrictions. His actions would have no consequences. That’s what being in the ‘monied class’ was like. No consequencies. A endless horizon with limitless possibilities. There was the money too. God, there was so much to be jealous about. “Right. So are you gonna help me?” “I’m so sorry, old chap. I have some business to attend to. But be sure to call by the house if you need anything further. I am sure my housekeeper will be more than willing to help.” “Thanks,” he said, trying not to drip too much sarcasm from his lips. “You’re welcome.” Bramley hadn’t noticed or chose not to. So where to start? He wondered if he could track down this gardener…no. What was the word? Gamekeeper? Something like that. Well, it was obvious he was going to have to start on his own at least. And he knew where to begin. The woods at the back and the tower. That had definitely been the centre of all the ‘activity’ over the years. It seemed like the place Emma would choose to go first. He followed the path past the orchard and towards the wood. He was feeling a little creeped out already. The dark weather had blown in from nowhere, and yesterday’s bright blistering sunshine was nowhere to be seen. The wood looked ominous and oppressive. It didn’t want any visitors. Not today. Well, Dave thought, no-one else is going to do this for me. He took a breath and plunged into the shadows. Dave puffed a little as he reached the top of the hill. It was a little brighter up here than down under the canopy. He walked around the path that led to the tower entrance. Looking in, he could see that there was no light to speak of. He pulled out his torch and began treading the rugged cold steps to the top floor. It surprised him that there were no windows at all. He expected at least some of those narrow slits used by the medieval archers. He completed the climb as he stepped into the tower room. Despite the torch, it was still difficult to see the dark stone walls and wooden floor. He walked in small shuffles until he was in the centre of the room. His torch flickered slightly, dimmed, then went out completely and he was enveloped in darkness. He had never experienced real darkness before. Damn battery. It was so dark, he couldn’t be sure whether his eyes were open or closed. He didn’t realise how thick pure dark was, how tangible. How it brushed past you and pushed at you from all sides. How it closed in and tried to suffocated you. The torch blinked timidly back on as Dave managed, finally, to squeeze a fresh battery and close the flap. He looked slowly around the room. It was a circular room, twelve foot in diameter. The wooded floor worn and old but certainly not the original flooring. The ceiling was very low. There was barely sufficient room to walk easily. He could feel his hair brushing the stone every time he moved. The stone wall, in some places, looked as if it had been worn down from the inside. There were gouges and deep scratches that must have taken months of diligent scraping. Then he spotted what he had been looking for. Emma’s dictaphone. He grabbed it off the floor and shone the torch light directly on it. It was in good shape. The tape had run right to the end of side A. He pressed rewind, hoping that there was power to run its functions. The little red LED glowed as the tape whirred. He guided the torch beam round the entire room but could find nothing else of significance. He was wondering how long the tape would take to rewind when it clicked to an abrupt stop. He pressed play. “I have entered the tower. I’m only two steps up and the light has already faded dramatically” The steps were slippery through hundreds of years of wear and she had to watch her step very carefully. She paused on the fourth step and pulled out the small torch she had brought with her, just in case. The beam was narrow and hardly seemed to penetrate the gloom above. As she stepped on upwards, the darkness met her like a wall and she cut the torch from left to right like a slender sword. The battery was brand new. She had bought it this morning. She had two spares as well. She was beginning to feel very glad of that, at least. She put the note pad back in her bag. “Don’t want to break my neck”. She had expected the sound of her voice to be muffled by the dusty closeness of the stairway yet instead, it bounced back at her, amplified ten times. She jolted and the primal urges sent her pulse racing and her hair sprang up. She immediately felt stupid and tried to shake the feeling off. But it wouldn’t leave her. She felt like something was wrong as if some deep concern was hovering over her. She felt a faint, cold muscular twinge in her shoulders and back. She needed to shiver or shake but couldn’t force it. It was too stifling and stuffy in here. “Well, on with the show” she rasped into the dicta-phone. “I’m going up the stairway now. The tower isn’t too tall. About fifty-feet. Not quite sure how many steps. I’ve counted fifteen so far and I already feel a million miles away from the outside world. The steps are quite smooth through centuries of use. Perhaps Lord Bramley should have Health and Safety to check this place out.” She tried to smile at her small joke. It was impossible to lighten the mood. “It’s so dark. There are no windows or openings in the walls at all. There’s no light from above either. I imagined there to be narrow slits or arched windows for medieval archers and the like. Completely dark.” She paused and touched the outer wall. “The outer wall is solid and quite smooth too. I can see deep gauges in the stone and scratches here and there. I can’t imagine what made those. It must have taken some diligent worker hours., maybe days, to accomplish. Maybe They’re just scrawlings of an ancient graffiti artist.” “Shit.” She stumbled slightly as the torch flickered. She banged it with the palm of her hand and the beam began pushing once more against the dark. “I can’t believe how dark it is in here. There is no glow from below. It’s a clear bright summer night but there’s nothing. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought I was stuck miles underground. What was that?” She gasped. “Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. I have researched this phenomenon. I can see flashes of light and white spots. Some appear right before my eyes. They’re not really clear, yet. Just out of sight, or out of the corner of my eyes. It comes from sensory deprivation. My brain is starved of input from my eyes and the optic nerves are still firing. Maybe that explains the lights people see in here. I never believed anywhere could be so dark. What’s this?” She pause again. “I can see some kind of writing on the step here. It’s in Latin but I can’t quite make out the words. I’ll have to ask the Gardener.” Her legs began to tire as she passed her fiftieth step. “I must be close to the top now. God, I need some exercise.” She coughed, and wheezed as she inhaled. “Memo to me. Get some exercise and never smoke again.” The darkness was still playing tricks. The brief flashes and spots were more tangible now. Every time here eyes pulsed with imaginary light, her heart squeezed adrenalin through her anxious veins. “This is mad” she whispered. “I can’t see the end of this stairway yet. And I’m definitely seeing things. Oh God! This step is crumbly. God job I saw that. It’s a long way down.” She gulped and stretched herself up to the next step up. “The steps appear to steepening, which makes no sense at all. Unless there’s some kind of physical, architectural conundrum, or something. What’s that artist’s name? I’m having to reach a little more with each step now. My calves are aching.” She paused for a second or two to let here burning legs recover. The cool blood reached her muscles and soothed the fire. “Onwards and upwards” she said. She angled the torch upwards and continued her ascent. “I must be close now. Hello?” The echo reverberated around the tower. It was like standing in the Albert Hall with all the lights out. “There’s no answer. He’s probably getting the camping gear ready, or something. Hello? Mr, er, Gardener?” There was a loud thump from above as if someone had fallen. “Shit. I’m going quicker now. I think, maybe, our gardener friend is in trouble.” There was another thump. And another. The thuds were shaking the air around her. She could feel falls against her face. She spluttered as she tried to breath. “An open space. I’m at the top now. I’m at the top.” She jumped the final step and burst into the tower room. “Hello? Are you alright? Where are you?” As swiftly and carefully as she could, she moved, checking every extremity of the stone room. She could feel the strong hard wooden floor beneath her feet and she had a feel of the size of the room but the torch was so inadequate, she couldn’t really be sure where she was treading. She could hear her breath reverberating against the dead stone. “Hello? Are you there?” “Aye” Emma jumped. The Keeper was stood beside her. She tried to regain her composure. “Oh. Are you okay?” “Aye” “Oh. Only, I heard some banging?” “Aye. That’ll ‘appen.” She hoped the Keeper couldn’t see her shake her head. She hoped Lord Bramley would be a little more forthcoming. “Right. So. What happens now?” “Sit. Wait.” “Oh,” and she continued her reporting. “I’m sitting in the room in the top of the tower called the ‘Devil’s Room’. I have turned the torch off to conserve the batteries for later. I feel uneasy about this. The room I am sitting in is rumoured to be one of the most haunted places in Britain. I can well believe why. There is no moving air in here. It’s a little stifling. And there is no light at all. I would say the room is fifteen feet across, yet I can’t see the opposite wall. In fact, without the torch on, I can’t see anything. Up here is where the sensory deprivation really comes into its own. As before, I can see flashes and spots. These are much stronger and rather than being at the edge of my vision, they are quite lucid and tangible. I feel I could touch them. The Gardener, or should I say, the Keeper, is sat at the opposite side of the room. I think. I haven’t heard him move since we settled in. We are waiting for Lord Bramley to arrive. What was that? I can feel something. It’s like a rumbling, as if a train had just passed by. Strange. Part of the illusion, maybe? What’s that? There’s a scraping noise. Must be birds, or something. There’s that thud again. It’s a bit disconcerting. My heart’s starting to race now. It’s really easy to get carried away up here. Phew! I’m sweating. There’s that scraping again. I can hear breathing. Deep, rasping breaths. Mr…er..Keeper? Is that you? No answer. Maybe he’s left and I missed it? I could have missed him in this darkness. The breathing is coming from all around. It’s so low. Inhuman. The walls are vibrating. I can’t believe it. The stone is actually vibrating. I can feel it against my back. The air feels really thick. It’s like I’m being swallowed or drowned. It’s becoming a little hard to breath. What’s that? There was a flash of light. Was that real? There’s another. The breathing has stopped now. Thank God. Another flash. It’s like a strobe. I can feel the electricity in the air. My hairs are standing on end. I just felt something brush past me. What was that? Sorry. I could see something in the flash. There it is again. It’s a figure. Tall and dark. Cloaked I think. Shit! Jesus help me. Ff…There’s something there. Right in front of me. Shhit It’s really there. It’s arms are outstretched. To me. It’s moving closer. Shit. What the ff…I can hear the scrape of its feet. I can feel it. It’s stood…huh…uh…My God…By my feet. It’s hand is by my face. I’ve closed my eyes but I can still see it. Still feel it. Help me, Jesus. Help me please. Help me. Help me. Aaaaaahhhh.” “Thank God. There’s a strong light coming from the other side of the room. The Keeper. He must have a torch with him. I feel like my head’s gonna explode. I can’t believe what I’ve just seen. Was it real? No. It can’t have been. The Keeper’s just said yes. Yes it’s real? Or yes it can’t be? Great. My torch isn’t working. This has rattled me. Sorry, I’m going to have a cig to calm my nerves. Can’t believe I’ve smoked so much today. Dave, it’s your fault you’re a bastard. This is all part of some elaborate wind-up. Ahhh. That’s better. It’s amazing what a fag can do. I hope I’ve got enough to last the evening. The Keeper’s turned the torch off now. Darkness. I can see the glow of my cig and that’s about it. I can hear something. Footsteps. It must be the Lord. I can hear them coming nearer. A steady, deliberate step. There’s a funny echo in here. It sounds like there’s more than one. It’s these closed spaces. He’s just entered the room about four feet from me. Wait. There’s someone else here. What’s happening. Bramley? Shit. No. It’s still again. I can feel dust falling on my head. I swear, God, get me out of here and I’ll never smoke again. There’s a rustling. It’s the Keeper. What’s he…Oh. He’s lit a cigarette. I can see it opposite. There’s another right next to him. Bramley? Is that you? A bright red glow. There’s another one. What’s…? Another one. Jesus. It’s cold. Icy cold. The thudding’s started. It all around me. In the air. The stones. There’s another light. Another. They’re…they’re eyes. Oh God, no. Ohh God please. I’m surrounded. They’re all around. They’ve come. They’re here for me. Our Father…Who art in heaven hallowed be thy …no…no…help me….help…” The tape snapped to a stop but the sound of Emma’s screams still shook the air and buzzed his ears. It was a lot to take in. And he was here alone. And he could feel the cold electricity in the air. And he could hear the footsteps. From below. Many of them. A hoard. They were coming for him.