Phantoms E-Book

M. R. Carey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A stunning new ghost story anthology featuring stories from bestselling authors Joe Hill, Josh Malerman, Paul Tremblay and M.R. CareyThe brightest names in horror showcase a ghastly collection of eighteen ghost stories that will have you watching over your shoulder, heart racing at every bump in the night. In "My Life in Politics" by M.R. Carey the spirits of those without a voice refuse to let a politician keep them silent. In "The Adjoining Room" by A.K. Benedict a woman finds her hotel neighbour trapped and screaming behind a door that doesn't exist. George Mann's "The Restoration" sees a young artist become obsessed with returning a forgotten painting to its former glory, even if it kills her. And Laura Purcell's "Cameo" shows that the parting gift of a loved one can have far darker consequences than ever imagined...These unsettling tales from the some of the best modern horror writers will send a chill down your spine like someone has walked over your grave… or perhaps just woken up in their own.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction Marie O’Regan

When We Fall, We Forget Angela Slatter

Tom is in the Attic Robert Shearman

20th Century Ghost Joe Hill

A Man Walking His Dog Tim Lebbon

Cameo Laura Purcell

Lula-Belle Catriona Ward

Front Row Rider Muriel Gray

A Haunting John Connolly

My Life in Politics M.R. Carey

Frank, Hide Josh Malerman

The Chain Walk Helen Grant

The Adjoining Room A. K. Benedict

The Ghost in the Glade Kelley Armstrong

The Restoration George Mann

One New Follower Mark A. Latham

A Haunted House is a Wheel Upon Which Some are Broken Paul Tremblay

Halloo Gemma Files

The Marvellous Talking Machine Alison Littlewood

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

PHANTOMS

HAUNTING TALES

from masters of the genre

Also available from Titan Books

New FearsNew Fears 2Dark Cities: All-New Masterpieces of Urban TerrorDead Letters: An Anthology of the Undelivered, the Missing, the Returned…Wastelands: Stories of the ApocalypseWastelands 2: More Stories of the Apocalypse

PHANTOMS

HAUNTING TALES

from masters of the genre

edited byMarie O’Regan

TITAN BOOKS

PhantomsPrint edition ISBN: 9781785657948Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785657955

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: October 201810 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

INTRODUCTION copyright © Marie O’Regan 2018WHEN WE FALL, WE FORGET copyright © Angela Slatter 2018TOM IS IN THE ATTIC copyright © Robert Shearman 201820TH CENTURY GHOST copyright © Joe Hill 2005, 2007. “20th Century Ghost” was first published in the High Plains Literary Review, vol. XVII, no. 1–3, 2002. It appeared in the story collection 20th Century Ghost first published in 2005 by PS Publishing Ltd., England and subsequently in a hardcover edition published in 2007 by HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission of the author.A MAN WALKING HIS DOG copyright © Tim Lebbon 2018CAMEO copyright © Laura Purcell 2018LULA-BELLE copyright © Catriona Ward 2018FRONT ROW RIDER copyright © Muriel Gray 2011. “Front Row Rider” was first published in The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women, Constable and Robinson/Running Press. Reprinted by permission of the author.A HAUNTING copyright © John Connolly 2009. “A Haunting” was originally published in Dark Delicacies III: Hauntings. Reprinted by permission of the author.MY LIFE IN POLITICS copyright © M.R. Carey 2018

FRANK, HIDE copyright © Josh Malerman 2018THE CHAIN WALK copyright © Helen Grant 2018THE ADJOINING ROOM copyright © A.K. Benedict 2018THE GHOST IN THE GLADE copyright © Kelley Armstrong 2018THE RESTORATION copyright © George Mann 2018ONE NEW FOLLOWER copyright © Mark A. Latham 2018A HAUNTED HOUSE IS A WHEEL UPON WHICH SOME ARE BROKEN copyright © Paul Tremblay 2016. Originally published in Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories. Reprinted by permission of the author.HALLOO copyright © Gemma Files 2018THE MARVELLOUS TALKING MACHINE copyright © Alison Littlewood 2018

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

INTRODUCTION

Marie O'Regan

Anyone who knows me knows my love of ghost stories. From an early age, I read everything I could get my hands on – I have very fond memories of reading Enid Blyton (I especially loved the Adventure series and the Famous Five novels) and Agatha Christie, two of my favourite authors at that time. Then, aged nine, I found a book in the school library called Thin Air: An Anthology of Ghost Stories (edited by Alan C. Jenkins, in 1967), and my direction was set. It contained such classics as Dickens’ “The Signal-Man”, W.W. Jacobs’ “The Monkey’s Paw” and Saki’s “The Open Window”, as well as more whimsical stories such as Oscar Wilde’s much-loved “The Canterville Ghost” and Hugh Walpole’s “The Little Ghost” – thirty stories in total, ranging from gently humorous to downright terrifying. In the end, I took that book out so often that when I left primary school they gave it to me, and it’s still one of my most prized possessions.

From then on, my tastes leaned more towards darker fiction, although it could be said that my love for Agatha Christie had already given me a nudge in that direction. I’ve read – and continue to read – widely in many genres, but I have a special fondness to this day for a ghost story, well told. A few years ago (2012, to be exact), I edited my first solo anthology: The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women, partly because of this love of ghost stories and partly because at that time I kept hearing that women didn’t really write horror of any kind, let alone supernatural. Not true, of course, and I was happy to showcase the talents of both classic and current writers in an anthology I felt displayed a wide range of ghost stories. There was something – hopefully – for every taste.

So why ghost stories? Ghost stories have a quality, for me, that sets them apart from other types of supernatural tale. They tend to be stories that deal with loss, or guilt. There’s an emotional resonance that a reader can feel permeating the page; there’s no need for a “baddie” if you don’t want to include one in your story, as not all ghost stories are to do with evil-doers and their intent or their deeds. They have an atmosphere that’s unique to them, a creeping sense of… not fear, necessarily, more of disquiet – a knowledge that something’s there, just out of sight, at the far reaches of hearing or vision. At least until the spirit chooses to reveal itself. There’s a melancholy, a sadness, that resonates with the reader and creates empathy, leaving a frisson of emotion that often remains long after the reading of the story.

With this volume, I’ve gone for modern ghost stories, from a very talented range of writers who were kind enough either to write a tale especially for this anthology or to allow me to reprint a favourite of mine from their existing body of work. Within these pages you’ll find a range of ghost stories – from John Connolly’s incredibly poignant “A Haunting” and Joe Hill’s film-loving “20th Century Ghost” to Muriel Gray’s tragic “Front Row Rider” and Josh Malerman’s tale of guilt, “Frank, Hide”, not to mention stories by such authors as the wonderful A. K. Benedict, Helen Grant, Tim Lebbon, Robert Shearman and many more. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed putting this anthology together, and am very grateful to the authors for trusting me with their words.

I hope you find something you love in this anthology, as I have.

Marie O’ReganDerbyshireJanuary 2018

WHEN WE FALL, WE FORGET

Angela Slatter

The mist beyond the low stone wall is thick, now white, now grey, sometimes shading to a black that blends with the night, so it’s hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Never seen anything quite like it; though I’ve travelled far, this is different from any place I’ve ever been. Insular people, the small distances between their holdings might as well be a hundred miles for all the interest they take in their neighbours – unless there are secrets in the offing. The little town that clings to the earth sloping down to the harbour is not quite so bad; something to do with being in close proximity, I suppose. The necessity of human contact. And they all go to one church or the other, depending upon their own version of God and Its message. There’s a tidy white-washed Protestant place of worship in town, a grey stone Catholic one about ten minutes out of it. The name of this island doesn’t matter; it’s much like the one where my memories began and ended, those left to me along with my troubles.

I’ve been sitting on the front stoop for too long. The cold has numbed my backside and legs, made my lower back ache, but I don’t get up. Mortal hurts still strike me as novel even after all these years. The sun sank while I sat here, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that cooled far too soon. The fog began in the peat bogs just on the other side of the road that hardly anyone drives down anymore now they’re used to me. My cardigan’s too thin. If I had any sense I’d have gone in long ago, tended the hearth, had blazes crackling in the sitting room and in my chosen bedroom upstairs; I prefer the fireplaces to the rattling radiators, prefer the true warmth, the ancient warmth. But I am watching the mist, same as every evening, watching it mass above the bogs, creep up and over the road, then press and froth at the low stone wall that encloses my garden. Each night it creaks and clatters the rickety wooden gate, but it never pushes through, not even spilling between the long gaps from paling to paling. As if whatever waits out there keeps it at bay.

Ariel would have liked it here, the way the house is so close to the cliff, overlooking the sea. The rush and roar and crash of the waves on the rocks below, the constant sound of it. I’d have had to watch her, though, so close to the edge; the thing is, we’d not be here if I had not lost her once before.

The house crouches behind me, breathes over my shoulder. The place was already furnished, mostly antiques, not necessarily comfortable, but I make do. I need so little. It has three storeys: on the ground floor a kitchen, a library, a sitting room; upstairs four bedrooms and a renovated bathroom. Above that the tiny, airless attic with dust on the floorboards and a round window of red, blue and green, small enough for a child to open and push her head through should the mood take. Sometimes I hear what might be footsteps up there, the echoing sighs of forgotten things.

A racket at the gate catches my attention. The mist is shifting, spinning as if it might form into something new, something tall with substance. It brushes against the wooden entrance, shakes it enough to produce a noise that might hide a moan or a groan or even the sweep of a sharp metal object through the air. It struggles, wavers, fails and falls away. It’s not time yet; there are more tasks to be done.

I force myself upwards. My knees protest. I arch backwards and feel the little cracks as each vertebra returns to its proper alignment. Sighing, I go inside, closing the door behind me. There are things that need doing, and this body must sleep.

* * *

At mid-afternoon, the sun’s made half an effort, and though the light is mostly grey there are some shades of gold to it, here and there. The wind alternates between sly nips and outright bites. You can see why the trees, cut down in ancient times, were reluctant to grow again. There are only a few stunted oaks across the island, like the one clinging drunkenly to the side of the granite church. An angry, tenuous tree, ugly and twisted, refusing to go without a fight. My daughter would have squealed with delight to see it, to climb it, to perch triumphantly on branches not that far from the ground.

There’s no warmth, though. I settle the knitted cap more firmly on my head so the breeze can’t pluck the red locks of hair away, hunch my shoulders, jam my hands back into the pockets of my puffa jacket and continue towards the church and the small rectory beside it which houses the local priest.

As I get closer the stained glass windows seem to glow. I shake my head. Lighting inside the building. Nothing to be afraid of. I smile; it’s been so long since I’ve felt fear, the sensation is strange. The glasswork is very fine and I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. The faithful always want the best for their houses of worship, no matter how remote, will always empty their pockets, go short, starve their own children, if only the structure where they think God resides might be magnificent in some way. As if It’s not got better places to be.

The glass angels are exquisite, however, kind and forgiving, strikingly lovely as they deliver tidings of comfort and joy, and lambs to and from slaughter. I’m not sure what I feel as I look at them, whether I hear the singing of metal again, the sound Ramiel told me was the last I ever heard.

Off to my right are ranks of peat bricks and the gutted earth from which they’ve been dug. They lie like soldiers, waiting. Soon they’ll be stacked, herringboned, to dry.

No one’s around.

As with every other dwelling here, a low stone wall marks out the boundaries. Inside the graveyard are headstones, the older ones covered in mosses from deep fern green to almost lime, then to a seafoam hue. Many of the names have been weathered away. I focus on the double doors of the church; oak, I think, presumably brought over from the mainland where trees are plentiful, stained by age, smoothed by years of priestly and penitential hands, by the dogged ministrations of the ever-present wind. The lock, if ever it was polished to a shine, is black now. The left door hangs ajar, but the sunlight doesn’t creep too far inside.

I take a deep breath and move along the path, through the gap in the wall. Nothing happens; no bolt of lightning, no thunder, the sky does not split. I keep walking, right up to the doors, and there is only a tiny tremor in my fingers when I push them open. As I step over the threshold, that spot between my shoulder blades begins to itch.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the tiny porch, and I bump my hip against something hard: a marble font, carved like a gigantic cup with hands wrapped around the rim. The water within shimmers darkly, as if shadows rise to the surface, and I don’t dip into it, don’t cross myself and hope for the best like others. My reflection in it is an uncertain thing. There are rows of pews in the nave, twenty each to the left and right. On either side of an aisle flagstones also serve as headstones for those who’ve been judged as good and great. At the far end flicker many points of light: candelabras ranged on both sides of a small altar, and in front of that altar with its white gold-embroidered cloth and carved tabernacle is a man in a black cassock, turned towards me. He’s like a stain against the pristine fabric.

A man who gasps as I step from the gloom.

What does he see?

He puts out a hand to steady himself, the other comes up as if to ward me off. I smile. The doors behind me swing properly shut, cutting off the watery daylight that’s made me a silhouette to him.

“Father McBride?”

I can hear his breathing, it’s slowing, calming as he sees me for a human being after all. He nods, trying to collect himself.

What did he see?

“I’m Sarai McEwan.”

“Ah. The new girl at the big house on the Old Road.” And he smiles as if that might cover the fact he was terribly afraid for however brief a time. That I might be reduced to a series of descriptors. Girl. Trying to make me small, unimportant, to make himself feel big again. Once upon a time I’d have given him a lecture about infantilising women, but there are more important matters.

“Not so new,” is what I say instead. “Mhairead Spence at the historical society said I might chat with you.”

“I’ll speak to any who come to me in need,” he says, and I sense a homily approaching. I feel the heat of angry blood flooding my face, have to work hard to keep my voice steady. I think how it could all be done with now, that I could take up a candlestick or that fine shiny monstrance and… but no. There’s an order to things, steps that need following if I’m to get my wish.

“How kind. But it’s not your godliness I’m in need of today, Father.” I barely keep the contempt from my tone. “But your archaeological knowledge, that’s another thing entirely.”

His expression flickers like slides onto a screen, one change after another, subtly different until it settles to a kindly frown. Registering the rejection of one thing and the offering of another, unexpected thing. There’s uncertainty, too; his past clings to him as surely as a phantom limb. Doesn’t everyone’s?

“That was a long time ago, Ms McEwan.”

“You’re not that old,” I say; flattery works even on a priest. I can see it in his face as I draw closer. Especially on a priest. He’s in his forties, perhaps closer to fifty than not, but he’s handsome: square jaw, features rugged as if carved by his time on this island and eyes the pale shade of blue I associate with a stript soul, with a loss that’s leeched part of your very life from you. Eyes like my own. He’s tall, bulky, would turn to fat quickly if he weren’t careful, going for a run at dawn and dusk, past my house, muscular arms and legs pumping, fighting off whatever cold might try to get into his bones; he’s been here so long, the climate shouldn’t bother him anymore. The thick, salt and pepper hair is longer and untidier than is seemly for a man of his profession and vintage, but I don’t imagine the spinsters and widows who come to listen to his preaching mind so terribly much; nor the married women and some of the men.

“I don’t know much about the house where I’m staying, you see, just that an adventurer built it and filled it with his souvenirs.” I smile again, take the last few steps and offer my hand. After a moment, he accepts; his skin is warm, rough with calluses from years of digging that no amount of time will smooth away. His pupils dilate at the touch. I don’t look my age, and my lips are full, my eyes full-lashed; all the tales I’ve heard say that Gunn McBride always did have an eye for a beautiful woman. No reason why that would have changed just because he found God. I release his hand at last, feel the sudden cold.

“Thomas Earnchester, one of those Englishmen with too much money and a fascination with things that didn’t concern him. He died without heirs and left the estate to the Free Church. Everything’s been gradually sold off until only the house remains, and they let that out as a holiday rental.”

“There you go, Mrs Spence was right,” I say. “You’re very well informed.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been here the better part of twenty years. A body picks up bits and pieces of rumours and tales.”

“There’s a mummy,” I tell him, and he tilts his head, arctic gaze narrowing. “In a glass case.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” he says as if he should have.

I ask casually, “Have you visited there before?”

He shakes his head.

Good.

“It was up in the attic. I was exploring. That’s how I found it. Her. It. It’s not terribly big so I moved her to the sitting room.” I pull the knitted cap from my head and curls tumble out, catching the light from the candles; his eyes follow the fall. “A peat mummy, I think, judging by the tea colour of the skin, but I’m no expert.”

He nods. “The constitution of the bogs does that. Depending on the acid concentration in the water, it will either eat the bones away and leave the skin and hair, or strip away the flesh and skin and leave the bones. They tend towards the former here.”

“Will you come and look? Please? Mhairead said you’d been an archaeologist once, that you’d know best. Only I feel it should be better looked after, not just gathering dust like some old fake mermaid sewn together by carnival shysters. If it’s valuable, it should go to a museum, but I don’t want to trouble anyone unless…”

He smiles and I know what he’s thinking: Don’t want to trouble anyone but me. I smile back, thinking: What else are you doing with your time?

“Besides, I’d be happy for the company if only for a little while,” I say, fully aware of the power of a woman’s attention, even on a priest. Especially on a priest.

“Tomorrow afternoon, then,” he says, and I release a breath. “I’ve evening Mass and community visits to make tonight. I don’t imagine your girl’s in any great hurry.”

“Tomorrow afternoon will be perfect,” I say, though my pulse is loud in my temples. My girl’s waited a long time; what’s one more day? My heart aches at the delay. “I look forward to it.”

I hesitate a little longer, stare at the stained glass windows once more, at the beatific faces that might or might not be familiar. Feel the itch between my shoulder blades again. Feel a similar itch at the back of my memory where the forgotten things wait.

“Anything else I can do for you, Ms McEwan?” he asks and his voice is soft, so soft it might contain an invitation.

I give another smile, a brilliant thing. “Just admiring your angels, Father, they’re lovely.”

He looks at them as if for the first time. “They’re doing their duty. It makes them beautiful.”

I laugh. “Oh, Father, the fallen are lovely too, and don’t you forget it. Didn’t Lucifer keep his good looks? Otherwise how might he tempt righteous souls?”

I walk towards home faster than I left it. Almost there, I have to pause at the side of the road until the shaking rage passes. I don’t throw up, though I feel I might. I straighten, take in the height, the breadth, the many stones that went into the house’s make-up. I look up at the attic window and think I see a shape pressed against the glass, but I know nothing’s there, not really. Just a sliver, a memory, a shade. Not a whole thing, not yet.

* * *

The night drags on. When I finally sleep, I dream of wings and old things that were given up, sacrificed. I dream of the things I yearned for, the things I gained and then lost. I wake in the dark hours to the certainty that someone is in the room, but when I open my eyes no one is there. Tiptoeing to the window, I peer out through the sliver between the thick curtains.

Beyond the low stone wall, the fog roils, agitates, rebels, but does not enter the garden.

“Did you speak to him, love?” Mhairead Spence asked when I ran into her in the village store. I stocked up on coffee and biscuits, which is basically what I exist on, and she on items far more appropriate, like fresh fruit and vegetables, flour and tea.

“Thank you, Mrs Spence.”

She nodded, a housewifely gesture, pleased that matters had gone as she’d expected. “He’s a good man for all he’s a Catholic. I’ve always thought him a little haunted.”

“Ah, Mrs Spence, we drag our ghosts behind us whether we want to or not.”

“You’ve an old head on you.” She’s got no idea. “Have a lovely evening, Sarai.”

“And you, Mrs Spence,” I said and watched her bustle her groceries up to the counter.

Now I press my fingers against the pane, feel it cold despite the double-glazing. The fire in the hearth has gone out and the chill is palpable. Down below one of my ghosts waits, stoic, with the patience of a statue. Eventually, I go back to bed and find a dreamless slumber awaits.

* * *

“She’s a lovely thing,” Father Gunn McBride says, crouching in front of the case, two fingers resting against the glass as if to steady his balance. His eyes are avid, almost warm with interest.

The little tea-brown girl lies on a bed of dirt, her head and shoulders twisted one way, the rest of her body the other, as if she was shifted and warped in the earth’s damp embrace. The long plaits are bright ochre red; once they were golden, but the bog has changed them too. The acid of the water has eaten away most of her clothing, so it’s not likely he’ll recognise that as an anachronism. And there’s that strange sheen to the skin; that and the colour of her, the distortion of her features from the pressure of liquid and peat, make her unrecognisable except to one who loved her.

“Exquisite in death, isn’t she? I think you’ve got a prize here, Ms McEwan.”

“Sarai, please.”

“Then I’m Gunn,” he says and smiles. “Of course, she’ll need to be x-rayed, all the usual tests conducted to make sure she’s what she appears. I can put you in contact with some people at one of the universities on the mainland. I’m sure they’ll be keen to help. I imagine the letting agent will want to be notified, though.”

“I’ll tell her,” I say. “Can I interest you in a drink? Sherry?”

“What do you take me for? A reverend?” He laughs as he says it.

“Whiskey, then?”

“No alcohol for me, thank you.” Yet there’s longing in his eyes, a whisper of it in his tone. Gunn McBride used to love his booze just as he loved his beautiful women. Probably more, and that’s where he came apart.

“I wonder where she’s from?” His voice is quite soft, musing. He sounds oddly kind and tender, as if he feels some responsibility for her, which he should. “I wonder what happened to her? A sacrifice, do you think? I can’t see a garrotte around her neck, or any obvious stab wounds. Perhaps poison or a blow to the back of the head?”

I wonder that he can discuss the death of a girl so casually. I turn away so he can’t see my face. “I’ll make tea, then.”

When we’re settled in the sitting room, the fire crackling merrily, the glass case between us, I say, “May I ask a question, Father?”

“You just did,” he says and chuckles as if it’s terribly funny. I want to tell him it’s not, but I just smile. “Of course you may, Sarai. And it’s Gunn, don’t forget,” as if his name is an intimacy he can force upon me.

“What did you see? When I walked into the church yesterday?” I sip at my own beverage, a dash of whiskey to fortify it.

His gaze slides away, latches onto the flames in the hearth, is held there for a few beats too long, then he lamely produces, “A trick of the light was all,” and says no more.

We sit in silence for a while, drinking, looking anywhere but at each other, until he breaks at last. “And what about you, Sarai? What do you do? What brings you to us?”

“I travel,” I answer, and smile. “I read, I research, sometimes I write. I witness and I watch, and if I can I set things to rights.”

“Independently wealthy and aimless, then?” He misunderstands, of course, though he can’t know it. “Nice thing to be.”

“It costs me sure enough, Gunn,” I use his name and see him blink. “And I only appear aimless to those who don’t pay enough attention.”

His gaze moves once again, to something behind me, or that he thinks is there. The stare traces an outline I can only imagine. “And you, Gunn, what made you change? From archaeologist to shepherd?”

It takes an effort for him to refocus, and his grin is uncomfortable.

“Mid-life crisis, shall we say? I found I had insufficient faith to support the life I was living. I needed something else, something that didn’t come at the bottom of a bottle or beneath a short skirt.” He shakes his head as if hit by the confessional urge. “Life was easy for me, Sarai. Things came easily to me: jobs, successes, women, and I let them go just as easily because I didn’t value them. I assumed that something new would replace whatever slid away. For a long time I was right; and then… then came a hole so deep I couldn’t fill it no matter what I poured down my throat or snorted up my nose or stuck my cock in.” His gaze flits to see if that shocks me. I wonder how often he’s given this speech, if it’s a standard he pulls out when trying to convince someone of his sincerity. I might have believed him, too, if not for that little glance. If I didn’t know what he’ll never actually confess.

“And you found what you needed in a black robe, performative cannibalism and the fairy story of a dead god come back to life?” I raise my cup as if in toast, see his flare of annoyance – not panic, too arrogant for that – to realise I’ve not fallen for his act.

“Will you look at the hour, Ms McEwan? Time for me to go.” He goes to put his cup on the coffee table and misses. The delicate vessel falls to the carpet, doesn’t smash, but the remnants of dark bitter liquid soak into the weave. He’s apologetic, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, how clumsy of me! I must have misjudged…”

“Nothing to apologise for, Father McBride. No harm done. Just leave it.” I crouch in front of him, right the cup and put it on the table, then take his hands and rise, pulling him with me. We stand so close I can feel his breath on my face. He stares at me. I let one hand drop, turn and lead him behind me. His feet seem to drag when we pass the stairs that go up, but I don’t pause. I guide him to the front door, open it and let his hand go. His fingers dance across my palm and he wavers on the stoop as if I might change my mind.

“For all you’ve found God, you don’t always want him around, do you?” I breathe into his face, all whiskey and sugar sweetness, and I can see it excites him. I think about the core of him, that he sometimes fights, but eventually gives in to. There’s too much of him that favours the darkness. And I want to put my hands around his thick throat and squeeze.

But I don’t.

I push him away, out into the night. He staggers a little down the steps, watches me close the door ever so slowly. I don’t know how long he’ll stay out there. But he’ll be back, I do know that much.

Once upon a time, Gunn McBride hid after he did what he did. He hid the result of his careless act and avoided the consequences. He hid from himself, from his conscience, pretended to find salvation in a new life. But it’s all a façade, all a dream, all make-believe. It’s just for show.

* * *

Two days and he doesn’t return.

Two days and I think I’ve lost him.

Two days and I fear he’s fled. I’ll have to trace him, track him, stalk him. Hunt him. As if I haven’t done that enough all these years.

Was I overconfident? Have I lost my chance? What if he sensed something? What if, when given the choice, he elected not to descend? Not to seal his own fate? What if he’s been genuine in his repentance? For long moments, I’m convinced I don’t have the energy to pursue him anymore. That it will be easier, simpler to just let him go. To forgive, if not to forget.

Then I remind myself what I would be giving up. What I already gave up, before. I remind myself that was enough, if not too much, that I will not surrender this. I will not abandon her. I will not fail her again.

And in that darkness sitting vigil over the glass coffin, in that deepest pit of anguish, when what passes for my soul kindles and reaches, when I recall the determination that’s kept me going, the doorbell rings.

There are shadows under his eyes. He’s forgone the cassock, is in his running gear, perspiration pouring off him despite the chill air. I wonder if he’s been drinking; I can smell the stale sweat with a hint of barley. Fallen off the wagon into the whiskey vat.

I’m pulling the door open as he’s pushing it, then he’s on me and soon in me, and I don’t care. This act is needed to show his fall is entire, that he’s not true to the life he claims. That he’s faithless.

And for me there’s relief in the physical contact, in the animal nature of the act, in knowing I’ve not lost. Who’d begrudge me that small comfort? I run my nails down his back, digging furrows that draw grunts from him but don’t slow him down. Then I’m on top of him and his eyes widen, go to a point behind my shoulders, and I hiss, “What do you see?”

This time he answers, gasping, “Wings. Wings!” and reaches up to touch them, to outline their feathery tips, but I know he won’t be able to make contact, that they’re not really there. Just ghostly things clinging to my back like cobwebs, impossible to shift, to leave behind. “How can you have these? Have I gone mad?”

“No more than the rest of us, Father.” I laugh, moving against him until he’s caught once again in what we’re doing and forgets to ask questions for a while.

When we’re done and lying on the hall rug, he runs his fingers across the skin of my back as if he might feel what he can no longer see, and asks, “What are you? One of them?”

“Once, or so I’ve been told. No longer.”

“Do you not know?”

“When we fall, we forget. Our wings are taken, sliced away with a great scythe, and our memories of our time aloft are removed, too.”

“Then how...”

“Writings.” I sigh. “And those who remain Above, who are not Fallen, they come to us. When we despair, they give us tasks, offer hope that perhaps we might one day find grace again if we are obedient.”

“But if you can’t remember then how do you know they’re not demons tempting you? That you’re not…?”

“Mad? I’ve asked myself that time and again, especially when the one who came to me first appeared. I can’t remember, but I feel these.” I point to the wings that are both there and not there. “They make us promises, that we can earn back what we lost. Most of us want our wings back, when we discover the things we fell for weren’t worth the sacrifice.”

“And you? What did you lose?” he asks tenderly, and I can almost believe he’s genuine. But I think of how casually he spoke of my girl’s death, thinking her an ancient sacrifice, how he never confessed to his deed, not even to another priest in the sanctity of confessional.

“Her. I’m told I chose to fall so I could have her. I’m told I questioned our nature, demanded to know why we did so little beyond fetching and carrying; why we created so little, why nothing we did was generative.” I shake my head. “Some days I wonder if I do remember: if there are cracks in the world, between what was and what is, if my memories are bleeding through.” I raise a hand as if I might catch at something, at a truth, then sigh again. “Yet, really, I remember nothing but her, and that’s because she came after I fell. I chose to be human so I could have her. All I ever wanted was a child; it must have been what I wanted because that desire was the only thing I could recall the day I awoke, wingless. I found a man who was kind. I conceived, nothing miraculous in that. I had her, my little one, my tiny joy. I had her for eight years.” I shrug as if it were all so simple, as if the time passed as easily as I’ve made the tale sound.

He says nothing, just watches my face. No sign from him that he recognises any of this story, no sign of compassion or even fleeting discomfort to hear of the death of a girl-child.

“Surely I knew from before that nothing lasts, that you mortals are so ephemeral − surely that piece of knowledge would have stuck − but I had her and thought she’d be there forever.” I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “It’s hard for angels to understand precisely how fragile life is. That humans are God’s goldfish, pretty, circling, soon to be dead and flushed.”

“What happened?” he asks, still stroking me. His touch raises goosebumps, or perhaps it’s just this part of the telling.

“A man killed her, a bright young man, an archaeologist on a dig. A drunk on an island not so terribly different to this one. He didn’t know me, didn’t know my child; it was purely coincidental. Hit her as she rode her bicycle home from school. Hit her and hurt her and instead of calling for help and taking the consequences, he feared for his reputation, his career.” He’s gone terribly still, his fingers frozen in the small of my back. “He was too drunk to slow down, too drunk to avoid hitting my Ariel, but sober enough to think to hide her body in the peat bog not far from the road. Sober enough to know she’d turn to a sack of leathery skin with her bones eaten away by the acid of the mire, that given enough time she’d look like an ancient mummy, a sacrifice from long ago.”

I sit up and lean against the wall, nesting amongst our discarded clothes. It’s cold here, but I don’t care: the chill reminds me I’m alive. That I feel. His face hangs as if all the muscles have been cut.

“How can you know?” he manages. “I told no one. Not ever.”

“You didn’t need to. You can’t hide from the angels. God perhaps − It’s very busy, gets distracted − but the angels… Well, their job is to watch, and they’re terribly good at that.” I lean forward, push a stray strand of hair out of his pale blue eyes. “His name is Ramiel, the one who came to me, and we were siblings, or so he says. He has dominion over those who rise from the dead. God lets us go if we ask, but It doesn’t like to, not really − doesn’t like losing souls any more than your Church does. So, when the chance comes to bring one back to the fold…”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“It took me so long to find her. Too long. There was nothing that could be done. The skeleton was gone. She’s just a piece of old leather now, my little girl. Or, more correctly, she was broken into a trinity: the body, the ghost that waits upstairs and the soul that lives in the mists outside, waiting.” I wipe away my tears. “Some just want to take their place amongst the heavenly host once more. But I couldn’t have cared less about that, about the wings. Ramiel didn’t come to me until I despaired, didn’t offer anything until I was in a place where I’d do anything to get my daughter back.”

I lean forward. “And I have done so much to earn my reward, Father McBride. I have hunted so many evil-doers, so many sinners whose very existence is anathema to the Godhead. I have been the instrument of punishment for so many years since you killed my Ariel, but finally I am told I have earned my reward.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he says again, plaintive as a boy who feels he’s wrongly punished, struggling upwards to pull his shorts back on, his shirt over his sweating torso. But he doesn’t run, doesn’t break for the door, as if needing the end of the story keeps him rooted. “I didn’t mean it, Sarai. I’m sorry. I was a different man, then, fearful of my freedom, my reputation.”

“And yet you never came forward. You hid in the priesthood as if you were somehow absolved, as if prayers and lip service might free you of all your sins. You never spoke of what you’d done, not even in the confessional booth.” I look at him, pitiless, and say, “It doesn’t matter. Whether you meant it or not, you did it. And you tried to hide it. Her. You did hide her. My little one.” And I can see in his eyes how I look. I wonder if I appeared like that when I had wings, when, Ramiel had told me, I made judgments and handed down wisdom and punishment.

“What will happen to me? What do you want?”

“Ah, you’ve made your own choices, taken your own steps, which is why I’ve not killed you myself.” I rise. “It’s time for you to leave. Away with you, then.” I open the door, feeling the wind lick at my bare skin; I point out to the terribly thick fog dancing just beyond the gate. “That’s the way you need to go.”

And he nods, befuddled and drunk on all that’s happened, all he’s learned, all that’s been taken from him even as it’s been given, drunk on the idea that he’s escaped consequences one more time. He walks with an assurance that surprises and angers me. He doesn’t notice even as he goes out the garden gate the creature in the mist, the one with wings such as I once had. Ramiel doesn’t follow him, doesn’t need to, just waits, as do I.

Waits for Gunn McBride’s feet to take the trail that’s irrevocably changed, that no longer goes towards his church and the tiny rectory beside it where he’d be warm and safe and comfortable. We linger expectantly, Ramiel and I, in the terrible cold until we hear the trickle of falling rocks, then a cry from Father McBride’s lips, a single sharp sound that breaks over my ears like shattering glass, and sets everything in motion.

I look towards the fog that takes a shape that is not Ramiel who has dominion over those who rise, but another, smaller form that shudders and shivers as if it too has wings or is being birthed. I feel a sympathetic tremor on my bare shoulder blades. A stream of mist breaks through the gate palings and shoots its way up the path, past me with the coldest breath of air, and into the sitting room where the display case lies. From the attic comes a cry.

I scramble to follow. A shape, pale and elongated, flows down the stairs, reaches the case just as the mist does; they mingle and, as I watch, find their way into the casket through cracks and crevices invisible to the naked eye.

The glass is icy beneath my fingertips as I flick the hidden latch and lift the lid. The vapour pours into the holes in my daughter’s body, up nostrils, into parted lips and seashell-curved ears. She slips inside herself once again, into her skin, into that empty shell I’ve carted from place to place for so long. She reaches for me, mouths Mama, as though she’s no voice left to her, as though it’s yet to return.

Ariel is warm and soft, her skin growing paler by the second, her limbs firmer as the bones are reinstated, as her head and face lay claim once more to a pleasing, recognisable shape. I can smell the vinegary whiff of the acid that preserved her and hid her so no one but those who watch would know what Gunn McBride had done. So I wouldn’t know where she’d gone until Ramiel at last decided it was my time, and told me where to look. Told me what I had to do to get her back, to earn her resurrection from the angel of those who rise; and I never questioned him, simply obeyed.

And here she is at last, breathing once again, and I feel as if each breath goes some way to filling all the absences in my life. My child, all I wanted, all I needed. Whatever memories were taken when the great scythe removed my wings have no value beside this restoration. I know one thing with utter certainty: my daughter was a worthy reason to fall.

TOM IS IN THE ATTIC

Robert Shearman

Young Tom is playing in the attic again. You call him Young Tom, of course, to distinguish him from the other Toms, though you doubt it’s his real name. Young Tom hasn’t appeared for a while, and you had wondered whether you’d scared him off. But, no, there he is, if you stand at the bottom of the staircase, right at the very point where it begins to bend around into a spiral, and you listen closely, you can hear all the sound from above funnel down – and you do that now, and there he is, it’s Young Tom, it’s unmistakable.

And you go up to see him. You take the flashlight, and turn it on full beam. He’s silent suddenly, but that’s because you’re there – you can never be sure whether the reason he hides in the shadows is because he’s frightened or whether it’s just another one of his games. But if you’re patient, and you can be patient, he’ll come out of hiding soon enough; he’ll play in front of you quite amiably. The games he knows! Sometimes it’s hopscotch. Sometimes he’ll spin around in a circle, laughing, until he falls down. Sometimes he plays musical chairs, even though there’s no music, and there’s no chairs – and yet you know that’s what he’s playing, you just know.