Banquet for the Damned by Adam Nevill Page A

ago I began suffering from a series of recurrent nightmares. I was recovering from a particularly bad flu. I couldn't remember the exact subject matter, but became convinced it was more or less the same dream each night. You see, the situation was always the same after I awoke. And the dreams increased in frequency to the point when . . .' Mike pauses until Hart gives him a friendly nod. 'There was little point in even attempting to sleep. I never sleep for more than five hours and after a nightmare, I was too –' Mike hesitates '– wary about returning to sleep.'
'Anything in your room move?'
Mike licks his top lip and Hart notices his white knuckles – both of his hands have balled into fists. 'My bed linen had been seriously disturbed. As were some of my books and papers.'
'Pulled off shelves and things?'
'On the contrary. Turned around and upside down, and then placed back on the shelves. I must have done it in my sleep.'
'Been sleepwalking?
Mike nods. 'I live in Dean's Court and have found myself in the castle grounds twice after midnight.' Hart tries to keep his face deadpan. 'Should I see a doctor?' Mike asks.
'Why haven't you so far?'
'I don't think it's a physiological matter. I work hard and eat well.
My health is good. There's only been the pills for depression.'
'Yeah, you mentioned that. Which drug?'
'Prozac. I consulted a physician's desk guide and couldn't find anything about this medication having a connection to sleepwalking. My actions while asleep are quite deliberate.'
'What makes you say that?'
'Well, after every episode, I find a copy of Caesarious open on my desk, at the same page. Didn't notice it the first two times. And what's most odd is the fact I seem to highlight a certain phrase with . . .'
Hart frowns. 'Go on,'
'With my own blood.'
There is a perceptible tightening of Hart's scalp and something catches at the back of his throat.
'Alarming, isn't it?' Mike says, raising both eyebrows. 'I make a small incision somewhere on my body and select the same passage. Three times now.'
Hart clears his throat. 'What passage?'
' Sit tibi terra levis . Roughly translated it reads, may the earth rest lightly on you.'
This is new, but Hart says nothing.
'It's as if,' Mike continues, 'I'm taking an interest in resurrection – in the Jungian sense, and then wandering into the castle. I'm getting quite alarmed. There are cliffs nearby.'
'And you're still in town?' Hart asks, incredulous at the young scholar's calm.
'My work is at a crucial stage.'
Hart begins to rub his beard, and feels like he could use a drink.
'Do you see or hear anything when you wake up?'
'In my room, no. But in the library, yes.'
'The library?' Hart raises his voice, before apologising.
'Quite all right,' Mike replies. 'No one is more shocked than I. It happened as I worked late one evening, on a difficult translation, on the top floor of the university library. I always select the same spot. There's too much talking on the stairs and by the computer terminals, so I hide in a corner when I need to work. I must have fallen asleep because when I awoke, someone was touching me.'
'What time was this?'
'About nine in the evening. It stays open late for final-year students and postgrads in the summer.'
'Did you see who was touching you?'
'No. I would have turned had I been able, but I was completely paralysed. I couldn't move so much as a finger.'
'But you were able to see?'
'Oh yes, I was fully awake. I was able to move my eyes but not my head. I could see the coloured spines of the books to my right, the strip lights above, and my notebook on the desk below. Everything the same as before I fell asleep. As I explained earlier, I had not been sleeping well at night.'
'How would you describe the touch?'
'Like fingers. Pawing me.'
'How did you feel? I mean it was unpleasant, wasn't it?'
The grey eyes are roaming again and his little tongue flicks between his taut lips. 'Mr Miller, I was terrified. Unable to call for help, I just sat there