warning about the danger of pursuing the Dark Man came to Sam’s mind, but such things had always been counter-productive. Furious at her fear, she rushed in pursuit, grasped the handle and flung the door open.
Instead of the anticipated darkness, she found the room lit by the ceiling light.
A man wearing black slacks and a black turtle-neck was placing a grip on the bed. No ghost, though his hollow cheeks, sallow complexion and shaven head gave him the look of one who’d gone close to the barrier before turning back. Eyes darker than the darkest pure chocolate turned towards her. He didn’t speak.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Sam Flood. I’m next door.”
He didn’t answer. She turned away and left.
Back in her own room she looked at herself in the dressing-table glass, her face flushed, her sun-browned body barely covered by her flimsy Melbourne Uni T-shirt.
I look like I’m on heat! she told herself. What was it I said?
Hi. I’m Sam Flood. I’m next door.
Jesus!
She checked her door. No lock, just a tiny bolt that didn’t look strong enough to resist a bailiff’s sneeze. Nevertheless she rammed it home and got into bed.
After a while she began to giggle, “Hi, I’m next door,” she said in a breathless little girl Marilyn voice. She choked her giggles into the pillow in case they should penetrate the intervening wall.
And soon sleep brought to an end Samantha Flood’s first day in Illthwaite.
8 •
A bit bloody late
Mig Madero stared at the door for a while after the strange apparition had vanished. Could he have conjured it up himself? Perhaps. To a man who rarely felt the world of spirits was more than an idle thought away, such a thing was not impossible. But the creature’s slight body had seemed full of life. A child of the house, perhaps? A girl-child, from the luxuriant red hair, though the loose T-shirt had given little hint of breasts …
Firmly he pushed the thought from his mind, finished unpacking, sat down on the bed and stared at the wall.
What was it she had said?
I’m next door.
A weird thing to say. And that accent, made worse by the high pitch of her voice! Definitely a child and not a very bright one.
He was trying to use the interruption to keep at bay memory of what had happened—or hadn’t happened—to him earlier. He rubbed the palms of his hands, flexed his feet. No pain, but still the echo of pain. He felt he ought to be tired after the long day’s journey. Instead he found he was wide awake.
He’d entered the pub like a fugitive seeking sanctuary. In the bar the landlady had been ringing “time” and trying to persuade her customers to leave. He’dintroduced himself briefly from the hallway and followed her directions to his room. After that nightmare drive, perhaps he should have taken a walk first, got some fresh air, but lights and the closeness of human company had seemed essential.
Now he was back in control. Anyway, if God wanted to frighten the shit out of you, He could just as easily do it in a well-lit crowded room. Night and mist themselves held no fears that man didn’t put there. A breath of air would be very welcome.
He stood up, taking care to bow his head so that it didn’t crack against the huge crossbeam. This was the kind of room for a man to learn humility in.
Quietly he opened the door and glided silently down the stairs.
He could still hear voices in the bar. The landlady’s persuasions must have fallen on stony ground. Or, rather, saturated ground! He went down the narrow lobby and out into the night, pulling the door to behind him.
Little light escaped through the heavily curtained barroom windows and out here it was almost pitch-black till you looked up and saw the breathtaking sweep of stars across the now cloudless sky. The time might come when, either through the inevitable decay of energy, or perhaps because someone had counted all the names of God, one by one the stars would go out.
But here and now, even though his
Instead of the anticipated darkness, she found the room lit by the ceiling light.
A man wearing black slacks and a black turtle-neck was placing a grip on the bed. No ghost, though his hollow cheeks, sallow complexion and shaven head gave him the look of one who’d gone close to the barrier before turning back. Eyes darker than the darkest pure chocolate turned towards her. He didn’t speak.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Sam Flood. I’m next door.”
He didn’t answer. She turned away and left.
Back in her own room she looked at herself in the dressing-table glass, her face flushed, her sun-browned body barely covered by her flimsy Melbourne Uni T-shirt.
I look like I’m on heat! she told herself. What was it I said?
Hi. I’m Sam Flood. I’m next door.
Jesus!
She checked her door. No lock, just a tiny bolt that didn’t look strong enough to resist a bailiff’s sneeze. Nevertheless she rammed it home and got into bed.
After a while she began to giggle, “Hi, I’m next door,” she said in a breathless little girl Marilyn voice. She choked her giggles into the pillow in case they should penetrate the intervening wall.
And soon sleep brought to an end Samantha Flood’s first day in Illthwaite.
8 •
A bit bloody late
Mig Madero stared at the door for a while after the strange apparition had vanished. Could he have conjured it up himself? Perhaps. To a man who rarely felt the world of spirits was more than an idle thought away, such a thing was not impossible. But the creature’s slight body had seemed full of life. A child of the house, perhaps? A girl-child, from the luxuriant red hair, though the loose T-shirt had given little hint of breasts …
Firmly he pushed the thought from his mind, finished unpacking, sat down on the bed and stared at the wall.
What was it she had said?
I’m next door.
A weird thing to say. And that accent, made worse by the high pitch of her voice! Definitely a child and not a very bright one.
He was trying to use the interruption to keep at bay memory of what had happened—or hadn’t happened—to him earlier. He rubbed the palms of his hands, flexed his feet. No pain, but still the echo of pain. He felt he ought to be tired after the long day’s journey. Instead he found he was wide awake.
He’d entered the pub like a fugitive seeking sanctuary. In the bar the landlady had been ringing “time” and trying to persuade her customers to leave. He’dintroduced himself briefly from the hallway and followed her directions to his room. After that nightmare drive, perhaps he should have taken a walk first, got some fresh air, but lights and the closeness of human company had seemed essential.
Now he was back in control. Anyway, if God wanted to frighten the shit out of you, He could just as easily do it in a well-lit crowded room. Night and mist themselves held no fears that man didn’t put there. A breath of air would be very welcome.
He stood up, taking care to bow his head so that it didn’t crack against the huge crossbeam. This was the kind of room for a man to learn humility in.
Quietly he opened the door and glided silently down the stairs.
He could still hear voices in the bar. The landlady’s persuasions must have fallen on stony ground. Or, rather, saturated ground! He went down the narrow lobby and out into the night, pulling the door to behind him.
Little light escaped through the heavily curtained barroom windows and out here it was almost pitch-black till you looked up and saw the breathtaking sweep of stars across the now cloudless sky. The time might come when, either through the inevitable decay of energy, or perhaps because someone had counted all the names of God, one by one the stars would go out.
But here and now, even though his
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