The Secret of Crickley Hall

this was kept low-level, for they hadn't wanted to upset Loren and Cally any further with talk of ghosts, real or otherwise. But when their daughters had gone to bed, Eve had told him of the incident with the garden swing that morning, how some invisible force had pushed the swing too high, terrifying Cally and frightening herself, how she, Eve, had been knocked to the ground, showing Gabe the small mark on her chin where she'd been hit by the wooden seat. She also spoke of the children's spirits that she—and Cally—had seen dancing in the hall. He had been dumbfounded and only made more determined to get his family away from Crickley Hall. Although he wouldn't admit it to them, he was becoming afraid for his wife and daughters. But Eve wouldn't listen, she just wouldn't hear him out. Frustrated, Gabe had retreated into a cool silence, the way he always did when events and emotions seemed to spin out of his control. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, in the new light of day, he'd get Eve to change her mind.

•

Gabe turned in his sleep and his eyes suddenly opened. He stared up at the ceiling where the glow from the landing light outside spread through the open doorway, and he wondered what had awakened him.

He was in Loren's bed; the girls had planted themselves in his and Eve's four-poster without seeking permission and both were sound asleep when he and Eve had turned in for the night. They hadn't the heart to disturb their daughters and Gabe, mindful of the previous uncomfortable nights in the crowded bed, had elected to sleep alone next door. Eve had not tried to dissuade him.

Rain lashed the window and he thought a sudden gust of wind might have rattled the frame hard enough to disturb him. He lay there for a full minute listening for any sounds but, despite the heavy bullets of rain that continued to punish the glass, the window itself was still.

Yet something had roused him, he was sure. A noise? A movement? He peered into the room's shadows, into the dark corners, seeking an answer, his imagination held in check for the moment. Nothing there, as far as he could tell.

Lifting his head from the pillow, he looked through the open doorway. There was nothing to see.

Gabe rested his head again, his eyes remaining wide open, and listened to the ceaseless rain. He had become used to England's general dampness whatever the season, but this was beyond usual. Apart from an occasional break, the rain had hardly let up for weeks now. He had a mental image of the river beneath the house, coursing through its subterranean channel, fed by the waters from the high moors. What damage had been done to Crickley Hall's foundations over the decades? How long could stone and cement withstand constant pressure? It was a discomforting thought.

He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep, needing to sleep. Crickley Hall had not offered the respite he'd hoped for. There was no peace here for his family, no let-up from their anguish.

His eyes blinked open.

There was no one else in the room, but suddenly it didn't feel that way. He searched the shadowy corners again and still there was nothing to cause concern. Yet… yet he could feel eyes watching him. It was an uncanny sensation, but it felt very real. Eerie. As if something malevolent were observing—no, scrutinizing—him from somewhere in the room.

He looked towards the open doorway again. Rain, driven by a sudden wind clattered against the window, causing him to start. A hell of a night out there. But it was a minor distraction, for the sense of being watched was impossible to ignore. The muscles in his neck became taut as he stretched them.

Then he saw it.

But it was only in the periphery of his vision, for his attention had been elsewhere.

He thought a small ragged mist had passed by on the landing outside. Like a shadow. Like a white shadow. Now he felt the skin of his entire body tighten as a deep chill enwrapped him. Gabe realized he was very scared.

Of course he had known fear before, but never quite like this. This fear was filled with a dread that almost immobilized him. He had to force himself to sit up in the bed.

Perversely, the dread of something unknown made Gabe angry with himself. He wasn't a child and didn't believe in ghosts. With a muttered curse, he forced himself to whip back the duvet and go to the door. Although dressed only in T-shirt and shorts, he was already too cold to feel any worse as he padded across the wooden flooring. His spine felt rigid, as though it were gripped by an icy brace, and he rolled his shoulders to loosen it. Still he felt as if he were being observed by something in the room with him; something invisible, but nevertheless there, lurking, hiding, where it couldn't be seen.

As he reached the door he caught a whiff of something nasty mixed with the weaker scent of…? Of soap? But not a pleasant brand of soap. But the extraneous odours seemed to have nothing to do with whatever had passed by the room a moment or two ago, because the air, such as it was, was purer on the landing. The unpleasant reek was from behind him. Outside the door he paused, then saw the mist again at the top of the stairs. It lingered there, as if waiting for him. A ridiculous notion, it was true, but one he couldn't shake.

Gabe was reminded of the skittering images he and Loren had witnessed earlier that day and the description came to him again: white shadow. This thing looked as insubstantial as that.

As he took a tentative step towards the small immobile mist, it began to descend the stairway. He peered over the balustrade to follow its progress.

The landing light barely infringed upon the gloom of the grand hall below; it was like an umbrageous arena filled with deep blacks and murky greys among which anything might skulk. Yet the sinking mist was clearly visible, as though illuminated from within.

Curiosity overrode Gabe's trepidation. He headed towards the stairway, careful to tread softly as he passed the room in which his wife and daughters slept. He would have liked to have retrieved the flashlight he now kept beside the four-poster bed, but that would risk waking Eve or one of the girls and they deserved at least one night of uninterrupted sleep. Reaching the stairway, he paused again to search the space below.

His eyes had become accustomed to the poor light and he caught sight of the white shadow floating across the hall towards the cellar door.

Gabe hurried down the stairs, a hand on the banister to feel his way, his senses acutely alert, dread countered by rushing adrenaline. He stopped once again on the stairway's square turn, his feet suddenly wet. He was standing in a puddle.

Rain beat at the tall window and it was hardly surprising that water had leaked through the worn window frames. As he stood there, the sense of being observed was powerful enough to make him spin round and search the stairs and landing behind him. There was nothing there, though. At least, nothing that he could see.

Ignoring the feeling of being prey to something unseen, he descended the rest of the stairs, then made his way across the flagstone floor towards the cellar on the other side of the hall. Despite his apprehension, he felt he was meant to follow this mist, this shadow; somehow it was irresistible, as if he were being lured. And he had put reason aside for the moment, allowing himself to be drawn.

He splashed through more puddles on the flagstones, but hardly noticed them now as he moved through the darkness, the light on the landing above too feeble to provide much guidance. He was tempted to find the main light switch by the kitchen door, but if the chandelier came on it would shine through the doorway to where his family slept; he still didn't want to wake them, no point, Loren might freak.

Gabe could just make out the solid blackness that was the open cellar door and as he watched, the white shadow slipped through and disappeared down the steps. Reluctant to lose sight of it completely, he quickened his pace, bare feet now slapping on dry stone. As he went, he swung his head round as if to catch whoever was observing him unawares, but there was nobody on the stairway or on the landing above. Nobody that he could see, that is. Still the feeling of being scrutinized persisted, although he seemed to have left the smell of corruption and soap behind.

As he approached the cellar door (which he remembered having locked yet again before turning in for the night), a different smell wafted out to him. This was of dampness and mould, of cobwebs and dust. He could hear the busy rush of the river beneath the house rising from the well below. Cautiously, he peeked through the opening.

Although the darkness was complete at the bottom of the steps, he just caught sight of the lighter shadow moving into it. Gabe reached in and turned on the narrow stairway's light, a naked low-wattage bulb covered in grime. The journey down into the cellar looked uninviting, for the blackness there had hardly receded; instead it seemed to be pushing against the lowest step like a threatening tenebrous tide.