The Secret of Crickley Hall

Gabe leaned down to her. 'You go with your ma, Sparky. We'll find him quicker if it's just me and Loren.' He had chosen his words carefully, leaving no doubt that they would find the wayward pet. He kissed her plump cheek, tasting her tear trail that already stained it.

Eve wasn't convinced. 'Oh Gabe, we haven't lost him, have we? You will get him back…?'

'We'll find him, he can't have gone far.' Gabe hoped she would believe him.

15: THE DREAM

In Crickley Hall's high-ceilinged sitting room off the great hall, there was a lumpy but comfortable couch and it was on this that Eve relaxed. She was tired. Last night had left her both weary and tense. The lights going out when Cally had started screaming had almost freaked her out. Thank God her daughter was only having a nightmare. But the knocking from the closed cupboard had been no dream and Gabe's explanation that it was an airlock in the waterpipes inside the cupboard wasn't convincing. But what else could the noise have been? Lying sleepless for much of the night with her imagination running wild had left her edgy and skittish this morning, only the service at St Mark's calming her.

In the church, and in the cold light of day, most of the night fears had been vanquished, common sense prevailing. That it had stopped raining and the sun could find periods of cloud breakthrough had helped accommodate logic—it really had been the waterpipes causing the disturbance and it really was a draught beneath the floorboards that had caused the rattling of the cupboard door—but doubt lingered. There was something strange about Crickley Hall, something dark, Eve could sense it. She could easily believe there were ghosts here.

She leaned sideways and pressed her head into the embroidered cushion that rested against the couch's arm. She closed her eyes.

Gabe and Loren were still out looking for Chester, having come back for the car—oh God, Eve hoped they hadn't lost him—and Cally was upstairs playing in her bedroom. Lunch wasn't a problem: microwaving a couple of the freezer-packs they'd bought in Hollow Bay yesterday wouldn't take long. Sunday lunch was usually a roast, but Gabe and the girls wouldn't mind missing it for one week.

Her eyelids flickered, opened once more. The sitting room, with its high windows and long beige drapes, was one of the nicer rooms in the house, although there was still an air of austerity about it. The windows were almost filled with the trees and greenery of the gorge slope and riverbank so that they were like natural murals. The wallpaper was old, traditional, but its flowery pattern at least cheered the room a little. The couch itself faced an oakwood and brick fireplace where Gabe had laid and lit a fire that morning to chase away the room's chill. The heat from it did not stretch far, but nevertheless it was making Eve drowsy. She blinked, forced her eyes open.

On a round occasional table opposite the couch were framed family photographs that they had brought with them to Crickley Hall and were among the first things Eve had displayed after the main items had been unpacked. They represented happier times. A wedding shot of Gabe and three-months-pregnant Eve, a large colour group shot of them all taken almost two years ago so it included Cam. To the fore was a small silver-framed picture of a brightly smiling Cam. She pushed away the thoughts, afraid of their conclusion. No body had been found, death could not be assumed. In the photograph, his hair, sweeping down almost to touch his eyebrows, was a striking yellow; when he grew it would probably darken, become shades closer to his father's. But the vivacity of those cornflower-blue eyes—so like Gabe's—would remain until old age paled them.

Her eyes moistened.

But her eyelids were heavy and a gentle warmth came from the coal and log fire.

Eve drifted, consciousness waned. She slept. She dreamed.

At the beginning it was bad, for although she slept she was still aware of the brooding house around her. She felt its chill, its shadows. She felt the misery that was in this place, in its memory, in its soul. Eve shivered in her sleep.

There was something wrong inside this house—perhaps it was her subconscious that told her this—some grim secret kept within it. She heard distant whimpers, then quiet sobs. The sounds of misery. Of being lost.

A tear squeezed through the corner of her eye, a silver droplet made red by the fire.

There was something ominous contained—caged—within these stone walls. A truth that was unattainable. A secret. The word formed in her mind as though written in stark, unembellished letters.

She stirred on the couch, twisting her neck to push her face into its cushioned back.

In her dream she was being called, but no matter where she looked, the source lay hidden. Faraway though it was, the voice was that of a child and its urgency was muted by the distance.

And suddenly Eve was dreaming of herself: she was looking down at her own sleeping body as though her mind had left it and was floating near the ceiling. Now her physical self was no longer inside the house. Instead, she was somewhere that was full of green space, a place where children played, where her own child, little Cally, slumbered in her buggy close by the bench, while her brother, almost one year older, played in the sandpit not far away.

Something was wrong, though. Something was terribly wrong. Yet still the body below her—her real self— slept on.

Five-year-old Cameron was slowly vanishing as sand ran through his tiny fingers to pile around and over his bent knees. Disappearing as a whole, not bit by bit, but fading as if a white fog was enveloping him. And still Eve dreamed, unaware of this dangerous decline of her son, sleeping as his image weakened, dimmed from sight, smothered by the fog.

Then she became aware of another presence in her dream, although this was so clear, so real, that she wondered—in her dream—if she was no longer asleep. The dark but sharp silhouette of a man loomed over her. The figure had narrow shoulders and a thin physique, and as he leaned towards her, his shadowed face only inches away from hers, there came a smell that was strange yet somehow familiar, an odour that mingled with his own thick rancid breath. She tried to turn her head away, but twin lights from the dark caverns of his deep-set eyes held her there mesmerized and afraid. Eve no longer viewed herself from above—she was back inside herself. She felt a huge pressure on her, weighing her down.

He exhaled and his breath was worse than before: it was stinking, fetid, the scent of a putrid cesspit. Yet still there was that underlying scent, the pungent odour of… of detergent? She felt scrutinized, inspected; she felt dread. Eve shrank away, but the head, with its gleaming inset pinpoint eyes, followed her. Although still shadowed, the features of the dream-visitor were revealed: he had a sharp, hooked nose, prominent, as his cleft chin was prominent above a thin scrawny neck; she still could not tell the colour of his eyes, she could only see those two gleaming lights that shone from them, reflections only but like searchlights used by him to scour her soul. That this man was wicked, she had no doubt; it was as evident as the malodour that came through his thin lips.

He raised a big-knuckled hand to her cheek, his bony fingers curled. He drew the hand down the skin of her face and, although his touch was weak, his flesh seemed to scratch against her own. In the dream and in the reality she gave out an anguished cry.

A lump of coal on the fire cracked with the heat, but its sound—and the sound of her own cry—failed to rouse her. Still she lay in troubled sleep. She groaned. Her leg flexed, an arm crossed her breasts, hand gripping her shoulder.

The nightmare should have awakened her, as such fantasies do when they become unbearable, but it failed and she dreamt on.

She reared away from the cold touch and just when the terror was at its zenith, she felt the clawed hand withdraw to be replaced by another touch, one that was gentle and soothing. A small soft hand was stroking her cheek and the fear very slowly began to leave her.

Her body relaxed and the touching of this little hand—a child's hand—was healing, driving away both terror… and guilt. She had the vaguest impression of a child's featureless face under a mop of hair so fair it looked white, but the image was both weak and fleeting. The nightmare faltered, became nebulous, finally left her.

She called out his name, a question.

'Cameron?'

And it was the sound of her own voice that finally woke her.