them.
Toni heard screams echoing in her ears but couid not seem to comprehend that they were coming from Vicki who had dropped to her knees and was staring at the monstrous scene before her.
Then, as if someone had pulled a veil from her mind she was able to see herself just what she’d done. She held the bloodied bundle at arm’s length, her expression a mixture of horror and bewilderment.
The next screams she heard were her own.
Oxford
The dining room table must have been fully eight feet long, perhaps half that in width and yet every single carefully polished inch of the surface seemed to be covered with pieces of paper. Some were still in the files they had originated in, others were scattered about like the pieces of some huge, unsolvable puzzle.
And to Dr Stephen Vernon, that was exactly what all these notes were. A puzzle. Yet somehow it had to be solved.
He looked across the table at Joubert who was making notes, scribbling down words and phrases, sifting through the mud in an effort to find those elusive nuggets of information. Since his arrival at Vernon’s house the previous night, he had clone little else. Now, as the clock ticked around to 6 p.m., he dropped his pen and sat back in the chair.
“There’s something missing,’ said the Frenchman, surveying the piles of paper, the typewritten sheets, the crammed notepads, the EEG read-outs.
‘But I thought you brought all your findings,’ Vernon said.
‘Lasalle must have some of the research material with him,’ Joubert said, irritably.
‘Then all of this is useless?’ Vernon suggested.
‘No, it isn’t useless but there are other factors too,’ the Frenchman said, getting to his feet and crossing to the phone.
Vernon watched him as he dialled, sucking enthusiastically on his cough sweet, enjoying the smell of menthol which filled the air around him.
Joubert drummed agitatedly on the sideboard as he waited for the receiver to be picked up. Eventually it was and Vernon listened as the investigator rattled out some questions in French. In the middle of it all he caught the name Lasalle. Joubert muttered something and pressed the cradle down, dialling again. He waited for an answer.
‘Lasalle,’ he said, quickly, as the receiver was picked up. ‘This is Joubert.’
‘Alain, where are you? Why weren’t you at the Centre, I …’
‘Listen to me, Lasalle,’ he interrupted. ‘Our notes on Astral projection, I need them. Do you have any?’
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you,’ Lasalle said. ‘All the files have gone from the Centre. Everything relating to that one project.’
‘I know, I have them,’ Joubert told him. ‘But there are some missing.’
‘You took them from the Centre?’ he asked. ‘But why?’
Joubert finally lost his temper.
‘For God’s sake. How many times do I have to say it? Shut up and listen to me,’ he barked. ‘Do you have any of the notes relating to that project?’
‘Yes I have.’
i’m going to give you an address, I want you to send everything you have to me. No matter how unimportant it may seem, I want the files. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, vaguely. His voice was almost subservient.
Joubert gave him the address of Vernon’s house, his irritation growing when he was forced to repeat it.
‘Why are you in England?” Lasalle wanted to know.
‘Send me those notes,’ his companion snapped.
‘Alain, you are needed here,’ Lasalle said, weakly. ‘There are newspaper and television people at the Centre every day. I can’t cope with their questions.
They want to know so much. I cannot work mid answer them. I need help … I feel overpowered … trapped. Alain, please.’
‘This fiasco is of your own making, Lasalle,’ Joubert hissed. ‘If you hadn’t written that damned article none of this would be happening.’
i need help here …”
‘And I need those notes,” he rasped and slammed down the phone. He stood motionless for a moment, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily. Vernon watched him in silence.
‘He has what I need. I should have been more thorough,’ the Frenchman said. He went on to tell Vernon what Lasalle has said about the press. As he did so, his face grew darker and finally, he slammed his fist down on the table top.
‘/ should be the one being interviewed not him,’ he snarled.
‘Is the recognition that important to you?’ Vernon asked.
Joubert sucked in a weary breath and nodded.
‘Eight years ago I was working for the Metapsychic Centre investigating a series of hauntings in a hotel in the Hauts-de-Seine area of Paris.’ He reached for a cigarette and lit it, drawing the smoke into his lungs. ‘I was working with another man, named Moreau.” The Frenchman frowned, his eyes narrowing. ‘We had been al the hotel for over two months, making recordings, taking statements from the people who stayed there. It seemed as if there was an entity of some kind present in the building. Eventually we managed to get a clear recording of its movements. The next night we even photographed it. A true haunting. As you know, most of those reported are either imagined or psychologically rooted but not this one. We had visual evidence.’
‘What happened?’ Vernon asked.
Joubert stubbed out what was left of his cigarette in the saucer and sat back in his chair.
‘Moreau took the photographs and the tape recordings to the Director of the Metapsychic Centre. He claimed that he
had discovered the entity. Despite my protestations, he was credited with it.
Now he’s one of the Directors of the Parapsychology Laboratory in Milan. One of the most respected men in his field in Italy. After that happened, I swore that I would never share any such finding with anyone. What I worked on, what I discovered would be mine. No one else’s. But look what has happened. The single most important breakthrough in the study of the paranormal for twenty years and Lasalle is being credited with it. When this is over, who will remember Alain Joubert?” He glared at Vernon. ‘No one. Well, this time it will be different. I had kept things quiet until the time was right to reveal the discoveries. The only reason I agreed to help you was because I knew that you offered no threat, you wanted the secret for your own reasons. You would not take away the recognition which was rightfully mine.’ His tone turned reflective, i underestimated Lasalle.’
‘I don’t see that there’s much you can do,’ Vernon said. ‘If the press have the story then …” He shrugged, allowing the sentence to trail off. ‘What can you do?’
Joubert did not answer, he merely gazed past Vernon to the overcast sky outside.
Clouds were gathering.
Paris
He awoke screaming.
Lasalle sat up, as if trying to shake the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. He gulped in huge lungfuls of air, one hand pressed to his chest as his heart thudded madly against his ribs.
He had seen her once more.
His wife.
His Madelaine.
Or what had once been her.
He had been bending over the grave laying fresh flowers on it when a hand had erupted from the earth and gripped his wrist, pulling him down as she hauled herself free of the dirt. She had sought his lips with hers, only hers were little more than liquescent pustules. She had embraced him with those rotting arms, pulling him close in
