Hauntings Read online

  Jack was kneeling down, the top of his head almost touching the wooden slats. At first, Tom thought he was injured, until he saw that his son was gingerly fishing in the pool at his feet, as if he both wanted and couldn’t bear the thought of a crab touching him.

  “Jack?”

  Jack looked up, as if startled that his Dad was right there. “Ooh,” he said, “you scared me.”

  Tom took a deep breath, trying to settle his breathing. “Why did you come down here?”

  His son beamed him a big smile. “To see the crabs. I told you.”

  Tom couldn’t see the stranger anywhere. Ahead of him, the fog bank was making land across the marsh but there was no one there. Towards the sea, the horizon now lost, the beach was empty and he knew the person hadn’t walked towards the car park or the town because he’d have seen them.

  Had he really seen anyone, or was it some kind of illusion – a trick of the light, playing off the fog? Jack didn’t seem worried and so Tom decided to let it go, not wanting to spook his son unnecessarily.

  “You did, of course you did,” Tom said and knelt down to ruffle his son’s hair. “Come on, Jack, we need to get moving.”

  “Aw, Dad.”

  “No, come on, we’ve got to go and get Mum.”

  “Oh, okay then,” said Jack and jumped to his feet. As Tom stood up, he could see someone standing in the middle of the beach, level with the car park. He felt a chill run across his shoulders and his scalp pulled tight. He couldn’t make out the person’s face, but they seemed to be very tall and wearing a long coat.

  Jack walked around behind him and started up the beach, skipping. Tom moved quickly, to get between him and the stranger but when he glanced over, the person was gone.

  “What the…” he started.

  “What’s up, Dad?”

  What was up? He was seeing someone, perhaps walking their dog or taking their daily constitutional and what did he think, really? That they were after his son? “Nothing, I just want to get going before the fog hits.”

  “We don’t want to leave Mum waiting, do we? You’d be in big trouble then.”

  Tom laughed, the innocence of the remark surprising him out of his worries.

  He unlocked the car as they walked off the beach and, whilst Jack got in, put the football in the boot. He glanced at the Metro, which had clearly not moved for a while – the roof and bonnet were coated in a healthy layer of sand and there was a Police Aware sticker on the driver’s window.

  Something moved inside it.

  “Stay in the car, Jack,” Tom said and made his way across the car park, taking a wide arc to keep clear of the car. As he got closer, he thought he saw movement again, as if someone was sitting in the driver’s seat and was trying to hunch down, out of view.

  Tom glanced back to his car. Jack was looking out of the window and waved. Tom waved back and, as he turned to the Metro, movement on the beach caught his eye. He looked up. The stranger was standing at the edge of the soft sand, his face obscured by the fog that whirled around him, also hiding parts of his arms and legs. The stranger raised his hand, as if in greeting and Tom turned and rushed back to the car. He pulled open the door, got in and switched the engine on.

  “Hold tight, mate,” he said and reversed sharply out of the spot, wheel-spinning on the loose gravel and speeding up the lane towards the main road.

  “That man smelled funny,” said Jack, slowly and carefully.

  Tom looked at him. “What man, where?”

  “The man on the beach. He came to see the crabs with me.”

  Tom put a hand on Jack’s knee and brought the car to a stop at the junction. “Are you okay, did he say anything to you?”

  Jack looked at his Dad, a puzzled expression on his face. “No, he just looked into the water with me.”

  As far as Tom could see there were no cars coming, but the fog had thickened considerably and he couldn’t see the town. Taking a chance, he put his foot down and the tyres squealed against the tarmac.

  He flicked on his full beam but the glare was reflected, dazzlingly, off the fog so he switched it off. He kept his foot down, wanting to make time, to get to Clare as arranged, but also to get as far away from this place as possible. He hoped the incident of the man standing with him wouldn’t give Jack bad dreams.

  On the right, a diffused glow of multi-coloured lights came into view through the gloom. Tom and Jack looked at each other and the boy shrugged. “Petrol station,” said Tom, as they got closer, “at least this one’s open.”

  He looked back at the road just as a dark shape came out of the fog, walking in front of them. Tom slammed the brakes on and twisted the wheel, forcing the car to slew across the lane towards the petrol station entrance. The man in the road moved as if he was trying to get in the way and get hit rather than avoid any impact.

  The sound of the collision was a dull thud. Tom stamped the brakes again and, from the corner of his eye, saw Jack’s head whiplash into the back of the chair. The car juddered to a halt, half on the petrol station apron and the man ran towards the shop.

  “Fuck,” said Tom. His arms were braced on the steering wheel, painful at the elbows and wrists. He looked at Jack and the boy looked back at him, big tears hanging on his eyelids, threatening to spill at any moment. “Are you alright, Jack?”

  Jack nodded, slowly. “You said a swear.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, are you okay, how does your neck feel?”

  “Fine.”

  Tom ran his hand over Jack’s head and down the back of his skull and around his neck. Everything felt fine. “You sure?”

  “Yes. Who was that, did we hit him?”

  “I don’t know, I couldn’t see him properly. But I’m going to find out.”

  Tom drove up onto the forecourt and parked directly in front of the night-pay window. “Stay here,” he said and waited for Jack to nod, “I’ll only be gone a minute. If I’m any longer, I’ll come and get you.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” Jack gave him a big smile, but Tom could see something in his eyes that made him feel sad.

  Tom held his hand out and waited until Jack gave him five. “I’ll just be inside, alright, I’ll come and get you in a minute.”

  Tom got out and locked the car. He waved to Jack, then strode towards the shop entrance. The fog had pulled the temperature down, making the air feel crisp and from here he couldn’t see the road which meant it was getting denser. That wasn’t good.

  He looked through the shop windows but they appeared to be covered with some kind of film, maybe to deflect the sun and keep it cooler inside, so he found himself staring at his own face.

  Tom glanced back at the car, only just visible now, and waved to Jack. When his son waved back, Tom pushed the door and all the lights went out.

  The change was startling. The forecourt lights, the sign, the shop lights, everything was off. Combined with the fog, visibility was now almost non-existent and Tom’s first thought was to get back to the car as quickly as he could. If the lack of light had startled him, it must have terrified Jack.

  Somebody moaned. The sound made him jump. His head suddenly felt hot and a cool sweat prickled against his forehead.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” The only sound he could hear was a faint crackling, as if an electrical connection was shorting out. “I saw you come in here, you must be hurt.”

  If the moaning hadn’t come from the man he’d hit, then there had to be someone else in here - the cashier at the very least, if the petrol station was open. Other customers maybe? Why weren’t they talking or shouting?

  One last time. “Hello?” Still no response. The crackling noise erupted for a short burst. He looked out of the windows but could only see the whiteness of the mist. The shape of the car was a blur through the furthermost window. Jack had put the interior light on.

  Tom took out his house-keys and felt on the ring for the little Maglite torch Clare had bought him - saying it was from Jack - for his last birthday. He hoped
his son hadn’t worn the battery down, playing with it. He held the torch up and switched it on and, although the light was feeble, it served its purpose.

  The shop was empty and had been for quite some time. The floor was covered in grit and dust and, although there were lots of footprints in it, none of them looked recent. The shelves were empty, some of them broken, all of the ads and banners torn away. Towards the front of the shop, the counter was a blank space, the flap up.

  The crackling noise started again as a strip light flickered above the cigarette display. Another moan sounded behind Tom and he spun around, holding the torch up. The beam didn’t do much to penetrate the gloom but he could make out empty magazine racks and a drinks fridge with the doors gaping open. There were two darker rectangular shapes on the back wall - toilets, he supposed.

  “Who’s in there?” he called.

  The moaning came again and, deep within it, a word. Tom leaned forward, desperate to hear. The moan came again, the word just barely audible. The light crackled but he didn’t turn around, focussing every ounce of his concentration on the moaning. There, again and the word, short and harsh. Still he couldn’t quite catch it.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The light crackled, louder this time and he turned. A dark shape moved in front of the cigarette display, then dropped out of sight behind the counter. Was it kids, someone from the town playing tricks? Pointing the Maglite down, he walked briskly towards the counter, the floor gritty under his feet. The counter-top was covered in dust too and someone had drawn a face in it, the same face he’d seen on the abandoned house - round face, dots for eyes, too many teeth.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, louder now. He stepped through the gap, his torch still trained on the floor. There was nobody in the walkway and the dust and sand on the floor hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.

  The voice was the barest of whispers, coming from just in front of him. “Tom?”

  He raised the torch high above his head but it didn’t illuminate anyone in the room. All he could see were ruined and wrecked shelves. He looked out of the night-pay window and there was Jack, sitting patiently in the car. He saw his Dad and stuck his thumb up. Tom made the same gesture.

  “That’s it,” he called, “I’ve tried to help but I’m leaving now.”

  He walked back through the shop, heading towards the entrance. There was a creaking noise, like a door being slowly pushed open after a long time closed. Biting his lip, he kept moving. The crackling sounded again and he tried to ignore it. The entrance seemed to get further away with every step he took.

  He heard his name again, whispered close to his ear. Outside the window, the fog seemed to press hard against the glass, taking away from sight everything behind it. The light crackled and he looked towards the counter. In the flickers, he saw a man standing and staring at him. He dipped in and out of sight, in time with the light and when that died, he was gone.

  Tom backed up, left arm outstretched feeling for the door. His fingers brushed cool glass. The creaking door sounded again behind him.

  There was movement on the forecourt, more dark shapes moving in and out of the fog.

  Jack.

  The light behind the counter flickered and there was the man, in each wash of illumination, staring at him. Tom backed further, felt something brush his arm. He turned, saw no one. The light above the two doors on the back wall flickered into life, illuminating a safety sign. Standing under it, only visible when the light was on, stood another man, grey and solemn, staring at Tom.

  He reached for the door – where the fuck was it?

  More lights flickered across the shop, each of them illuminating someone in the stutter, all of them grey and solemn.

  Tom turned, looking for the door and as he raised his hand, he realised that he could only see it when the lights were flickering on.

  ~*~

  Clare Barratt stood outside of the Ghost Pearl restaurant and watched as Angie got into the taxi.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come back to mine, Clare?”

  She managed a laugh. “No, it’s okay, Tom’ll be along in a minute. But thanks anyway.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  Clare waved and watched the taxi drive away, her annoyance at Tom smouldering in her belly. The idiot knew to pick her up for five, she’d told him to make sure he left Skegness in plenty of time. She pulled her phone out of her handbag and dialled his mobile. It rang for thirty or more seconds and she was just bracing herself to leave an angry voicemail when it was picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack? It’s Mummy.”

  “Hello, Mummy.”

  “Where are you, my lovely?”

  “In the car.”

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “I don’t know, he went into the garage and he hasn’t come out. I don’t know where we are, please come and get me.”

  “But I don’t know where you are, Jack, tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know, Mum, we went to the beach then hit that man and now we’re in the garage.”

  “Hit a man? What?”

  There was a pause, then Jack said, “It’s okay, Daddy’s coming.” Another pause. “Oh, that’s weird.”

  “What is, Jack, what’s weird?”

  “I can see through him.”

  Dark Peak

  Kim Lakin-Smith

  Mist drifted over the tors and moorland. The snow on the peaks had hardened to a crisp. Dry stone walling glittered with hoar frost.

  Mary Francis saw the barns, nestled against the hill as if taking solace from its shadow. The path was rugged and slippery. Mary kept her skirts hitched up as she navigated her way towards the barns. It was the sort of afternoon which should be spent darning beside the wood stove with Alice, the old cat, snoring on a cushion nearby. But here she was, and the weather meant the route was treacherous to any except the most experienced of guides.

  Wind gusted around the stone buildings as she approached. 1647 AD was carved into the lintel over the doorway.

  “Hello?” She pinched her coat collar at her neck. When no one answered, she rapped lightly on the door which was cobbled together from old nails and planks of sodden timber.

  Mary bent forward to peer in at a crack but the door swung back. A troll shuffled forward – at least that was Mary’s first impression of a woman so old she might have crumpled to dust on the spot. Clothing hung off the woman’s shoulders like clumps of cobweb. Her hair was long, grey and wild as a dog’s. The squinting eyes were rheumy and accusing.

  “What manner of spirit are you? Past, present or future?” The woman snorted and shook her head at her own joke. She swung a paraffin lantern in close to Mary’s face. The flame spluttered.

  “May I come in?” Mary blanched against the glare.

  “Wants to come in? There’s a new thing. Quite peculiar, but come on then.”

  Mary felt bustled inside without the old woman even touching her. The door slammed to at her back and was bolted shut.

  The interior of the barn was cramped – no bigger than the family room in her parents’ tin house. The walls were decorated with maps, graphs, handwritten lists, bible quotations, newspaper cuttings, and sketches. The paperwork overlapped in places, suggesting years dedicated to the same research subject. Some items were marked with a cross – dismissed as irrelevant, Mary presumed.

  “Warm yourself by the fire.” The old woman beat her hands together against the chill. Her wrists and knuckles were bound with leather strips, leaving the fingers free to work.

  Mary was glad to stand in front of the wood burner. The smoke was fed to the outside via a diagonal flume. The tube leaked at one join so that the room grew foggy now and then, and smelt of bonfires.

  “Are you researching the new dam?” Mary scanned the paperwork. Such an array of jumbled up words. She recognised a large map mounted on a board and speckled with pins. “Dark Peak… Coach and Horses, Dovestone Tor, Cakes of Bread, Back
Tor. I know the layout hereabouts roughly.” She hugged herself. “At least I do when the weather’s fine.”

  The old woman shuffled over to the corkboard. “I’d offer you something to eat or drink but you’ll have no need of that.” She pressed a new pin into the map. Mary judged the position as their current location.

  “Negative ions, but that’s not so unusual.” The old woman tapped the glass of a large brass barometer and clucked her tongue.

  Mary wasn’t hungry or thirsty, just desperately cold. It was as if she had been wandering the moors for days without respite or shelter.

  The old woman nodded at a pile of clothing in one corner. “If the chill is in your bones you can ransack those odds and sods for extra layers. Walkers leave stuff behind on occasion. There’s a raggedy jumper left by one of those strange ‘uns who like to make a racket with their drums. Cape too with a hood, sort to keep the rain out. Probably left by one of the old ‘uns, them with yappy dogs, beer breath and crumbs in their beard. Help yourself.”

  Mary didn’t want to step away from the heat coming off the wood burner. But the wind moaned in the stove flume and she remembered the long journey ahead and the need to set out before nightfall.

  The knitted jumper came down past her hips – a scraggy old thing that smelt of camphor. An improvement on her cotton blouse alone though. She slid her arms back inside her coat – a snug fit and she was glad of it. The cape fitted over her hat and hung off her shoulders.

  “That’s right, lass. Tuck yourself in against the cold.” The old woman struggled into a second cape discarded by the stove and a knitted cap which struck Mary as something fishermen might wear.

  She stared at Mary. “I’m assuming you want a guide through the Shifting.”

  Mary wasn’t sure what she made of that statement. The door rattled on its hinges. Out there the mist could swallow a person up within a few yards and disguise the sheer drops where the gritstone peak had weathered. It was indeed a shifting landscape. And the sun was going down.