The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 9

  ‘Just the three of us now, I guess the cleaners and the gardeners will have gone home.’

  ‘That’ll be fine, but I’ll need the two of you to be with me to help.’

  Deadman and Nightingale nodded. ‘Sure,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Good,’ said Miller. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get a few hour’s sleep. I’m pretty tired from traveling, and I’ll need to be rested for tonight.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Deadman. ‘I’ll take you up to a guest room. You can look in on the nursery on the way. Excuse us, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll come up with you,’ said Nightingale, rubbing his left side. ‘I could use a few hours sleep myself. And if the place runs to a first aid-kit, I could also use a few minor repairs.’

  * * *

  The three men sat in the nursery at midnight, wearing black hooded robes that Miller had brought from England, since he claimed that the less color there was, the better. They’d all showered and put on clean clothes, but Nightingale had been surprised that Miller hadn’t insisted on a thorough clean for the room. ‘No,’ he’d told them. ‘It’s important we don’t introduce our own impurities now, but any traces of the children or vibrations from previous manifestations might be helpful in guiding the spirit to us.’

  He’d spent an hour in the room, setting it up and preparing for the ritual, and, gazing around, Nightingale understood the need for such a large suitcase. He had spread a large purple cloth in the middle of the floor and Miller had carefully drawn a pentagram on it with white chalk. He had placed a small brass bowl of herbs inside each of the five points, and a small table in the middle, which he’d borrowed from one of the sitting rooms. Three brass bowls stood on the table. At the northernmost point of the pentagram was a small wooden altar, covered in a black cloth, with another pentagram drawn there. At each point he had placed a small black candle in a brass holder.

  ‘The pentagrams are for protection?’ said Nightingale. ‘Is it likely to be dangerous?’

  ‘I highly doubt it,’ said Miller. ‘Nothing you’ve told me suggests the spirit is malevolent. But I was taught to prepare for what could happen, rather than what ought to happen. Once I summon a spirit and it manifests itself, it can be an awful lot more powerful than when it passes unseen. Now, we can begin.’

  He picked up a much larger candle, also black, pressed it into a brass holder and set it in the middle of the smaller pentagram. Then he took a lighter from the pocket of his robe and lit all the candles, finishing with the large one. There was a taper lying on the altar, he lit it from the central candle, then walked to the bowls of herbs at the points of the large pentagram and lit them too.

  Smoke rose into the room. Miller returned to the altar, said two sentences in Latin, and pulled up the hood of his robe. He picked up a brass chalice, then turned to the other two. ‘Now we need to stand in the pentacle,’ he said. ‘Under no circumstances should you leave it, until I tell you it’s safe, no matter what you might see or hear. That’s very important.’

  The last sentence was directed at Deadman, who hadn’t said a word since entering the room. He nodded. The three of them moved into the pentacle.

  ‘Now, form a circle of hands,’ said Miller. ‘And just follow my lead for a few minutes.’

  Nightingale clasped Deadman’s hand with his left and Miller’s with his right. Miller bent his head forward and started to hum. Deadman matched his pitch at once, but it took Nightingale two or three attempts to get there. Once all three of them were in pitch, Nightingale felt his body begin to tremble, then vibrate from his stomach upwards. His attention began to drift, almost as if he was rising out of his body, but before the feeling could get too intense, Miller fell silent. He pronounced four words in a language Nightingale didn’t know, and nodded at the others, who did their best to repeat them accurately. Miller dropped their hands, picked up the brass bowl that lay at his feet, and sprinkled something onto the herbs at the north point of the pentagram. Instantly the flame leaped up and a new pungent odour filled the room.

  Miller performed a series of signs with his hands. Nightingale recognized two of them as the signs of Osiris, slain and risen, which he’d once learned for a ritual himself, but the others were new to him. Clearly Miller knew a lot more about the rituals of the Left-hand Path than he did. Miller began to call loudly towards the ceiling. ‘I summon thee, restless spirit. I summon thee before me.’

  He repeated the phrase three more times, but Nightingale didn’t notice any difference in the atmosphere of the room, and certainly no sign of any apparition. He wondered if Miller was as adept as he seemed to think. Miller showed no signs of being worried, but dipped his hand into one of the bowls on the table. ‘With salt, I summon thee,’ he shouted, throwing the salt into the burning herbs. He took something from the second bowl. ‘With hair, I summon thee.’

  His voice was louder now, as he flung the hair into the flame. Nightingale briefly wondered where the shaven-headed Miller had got hair from, but pushed the thought back down. Maybe he didn’t want to know. The room was still pleasantly warm, with no sign of any other change. Miller picked up the final bowl and held it above his head. His voice reached a crescendo this time. ‘With blood, I summon thee.’

  Miller poured the contents of the bowl into the flame, which promptly went out. All the candles flickered and Nightingale felt a sudden chill He looked across at the room thermostat, and could see enough to make out the figures dropping rapidly. Deadman was shivering and his eyes were widening. Nightingale followed his gaze, then held his breath.

  White smoke was billowing in the very center of the room, between the two cribs. It wasn’t rising from the floor, or descending from the ceiling, it was just appearing, about a foot from the floor. As the three men watched in silence, it began to coalesce, slowly at first, then more quickly, as if it were gathering strength. Finally it took solid form. No, thought Nightingale, not form. Forms. Too many to count, huddling together as if for warmth, the heads huge in proportion to the fragile bodies, some of them white, some much darker, some seeming damaged with hunched backs, twisted limbs. All of the shapes were staring at him with vacant, uncomprehending eyes, as if they had no idea where they were or why they were there. Nightingale felt a nameless fear radiating from them that threatened to overwhelm him with horror. The room was freezing cold now, and it was all he could do to force himself to stay in the safety of the pentagram.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ whispered Deadman, just behind him. ‘What are they? Aliens?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Nightingale. ‘Adrian, can we talk to them, find out what they want?’

  Miller too seemed almost paralyzed with the fear that spread through the room, so Nightingale shook him by the shoulder. Miller shook his head, as if to clear it, then nodded.

  ‘Speak, spirits,’ he said. ‘What is your business here amongst the living?’

  The forms shimmered, seemed to move closer together, but made no sound.

  ‘Try again,’ whispered Nightingale.

  ‘Speak, speak, I conjure thee.’ shouted Miller. ‘What business have you here amongst the living?’

  Again, there was silence, but, just as Miller opened his mouth to speak for the third time, the shimmering figures opened their mouths together.

  And howled.

  The noise was appalling, both in its volume and the raw fear and horror it embodied. The three men clamped their palms to their ears, which helped shut out some of the noise, but not the ghastly terror that filled their senses. Nightingale fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, and turned his head to see the other two in an identical state. He shouted at Miller. ‘Make them stop, make them stop!’

  The howling grew ever louder, and Nightingale felt his head start to swim with the pressure of the sound. He racked his memory for something in his limited occult experience that might help, and a long-forgotten Latin phrase rose to his lips. ‘Reverto per pacis quod per totus festinatio ex unde venit!’ he yelled at the
top of his voice.

  The howling stopped, and the terror racing through Nightingale’s mind disappeared with it. Miller and Deadman rose to their knees and looked around them. The temperature started to climb, and there was no sign of anything at all in the space between the cribs.

  * * *

  The three men sat in Deadman’s studio, the host on the sofa, Nightingale and Miller in the white leather chairs facing him. Deadman and Nightingale were smoking and all three had glasses of brandy. Deadman seemed pretty much recovered now, but Miller’s hands were still shaking, and his bloodshot eyes darted around the room as if expecting the manifestation to start all over again.

  ‘So, what was that?’ said Deadman.

  Miller gulped down some brandy. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before. It seemed like lots of spirits bound together, But usually they will obey a command to speak, spirits are keen to complete their business with the living and move on.’

  ‘Move on where?’ asked Deadman.

  ‘To whatever comes next, I don’t know. But there was just that awful howling, and I was overcome with fear, cold and darkness. That awful darkness. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t speak.’

  ‘Maybe they can’t speak,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘But why not?’

  Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette before he spoke. ‘Maybe they never learned. What did they remind you of?’

  ‘Aliens,’ said Deadman. ‘Those big heads, weak bodies.’

  ‘Come on, Jimmy,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know the history of the old house. What else has a large head in proportion to its body? They’re babies. Or the ghosts of babies.’

  ‘So they couldn’t understand me, much less speak,’ said Miller, nodding. ‘Spirits don’t age.’

  ‘But come on, Jack,’ said Deadman. ‘The kids from here would be anything from forty-five to seventy now. Why would their spirits come back here when they died?’

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘My guess is, they never left here.’

  Deadman frowned. ‘How could that be?’ he asked.

  Nightingale sipped his brandy and looked over at Miller. ‘Adrian, I need to know how to rid the place of the spirits, ghosts or whatever.’

  Miller took another large mouthful of brandy. ‘You need to find the mortal remains. Bones, bodies. Then you need to cover them with salt and burn them, while saying an incantation of banishment.’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, they’re not evil, Adrian. Just lost and terrified. I’m not going to destroy their very existence. Is there another way?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Miller. ‘Though it’s not really my area.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Nightingale.

  Miller told him.

  * * *

  The following morning, Nightingale sent Miller on his way, since the man had obviously been badly frightened and was eager to get away from the scene of his near breakdown. Nightingale called for a cab to take Miller to the airport. The taxi driver loaded Miller’s case and carry-on bag into the trunk, got back behind the wheel and drove away.

  Nightingale climbed into the MGB and drove to the Little Bend Police Department. It occupied a one story red-brick building along from the town hall and the courthouse, Two police cruisers stood outside, which Nightingale guessed might represent the entire complement of the force. Nightingale walked up the steps and nodded to the desk officer, a heavy-set woman in her forties, with badly dyed blonde hair, and a tight uniform that had probably fitted her more comfortably a year or two ago. She stopped typing on her computer keyboard, got up and walked over to the counter before looking at him. She returned the nod, but didn’t add a smile. ‘Help you, sir?’

  ‘I’d like to see Chief Wharton.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Probably, sometime.’

  She put her head on one side and sucked her teeth. ‘Man of mystery, eh? The Chief normally prefers people to make appointments.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a personal matter,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You don’t say. You come with a name?’

  Nightingale took out a card, wrote a few words on the back with the pen chained to the desk, then slid it across the desk to her. ‘It’s quite urgent,’ he said. ’If you give him that, I’m pretty sure he’ll see me.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Nightingale. Take a seat, I’ll see what I can do.’ She walked back into the room, knocked on a door, went inside and was gone for no more than a minute. When she returned she favored him with a small smile. ‘The Chief says he’s a little tied up right now,’ she said. ‘If you can wait, he’ll be with you soon. Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes, he says.’

  Nightingale nodded and made himself as comfortable as possible in the chair, which seemed to be designed to resist his efforts. He watched the second hand tick round on the wall clock, thought about going outside for a cigarette, but decided to stay put in case the Chief came out early.

  He’d been waiting ten minutes, when the main door opened, and a tall, heavily muscled man in blue coveralls and work boots walked in, gave Nightingale a blank look, walked on in and opened the door of the Chief’s office without knocking. Nightingale had never seen his face before, but he was fairly sure he’d seen the man before, wearing a balaclava and carrying a wrench.

  Another five minutes ticked by, then a buzzer rang on the sergeant’s desk.

  ‘You can go in now,’ said the woman, pointing at the office halfway down the room. Nightingale got up, walked over to the door, took a moment to read Steven J, Wharton, Chief Of Police, Little Bend PD, knocked and walked in.

  * * *

  The two men were obviously brothers, with the same thickset build, sandy hair and broad noses. Steve Wharton had more grey in his hair, a few more lines on a less-tanned face, and was running to fat just a little. Nightingale guessed that deskwork was not so good for keeping in shape as construction. Neither of them looked at all pleased to see him. The Chief didn’t get up from his desk or offer his hand. Cal Wharton stood just behind his brother’s right shoulder, and might as well have been carved from stone for all the interest he appeared to show. The Chief gestured at the chair opposite him, and growled. ‘Siddown.’

  Nightingale sat, leaned as far back as the chair permitted, and gave both brothers a long, unblinking look. He’d met hard men before, lots of them, and the brothers really didn’t compete. He wondered how they’d play it. There were really only two options, bluff or fold. For once in his dealings with the police, Nightingale was confident he held the winning hand.

  Steve Wharton picked up Nightingale’s business card, as if he were seeing it for the first time.

  ‘Jack Nightingale,’ he said, and turned it over to read the message on the back. ‘What’s this supposed to mean? “Will you provide the excavator, or do we hire our own?” Am I supposed to understand that?’

  Bluff. And a poor one. Nightingale shook his head. ‘It won’t wash, Chief Wharton. If you hadn’t known what it meant, you’d have ignored it, or maybe told the sergeant I had the wrong Wharton, and sent me down to your brother’s construction company. And if you didn’t have something to hide, your brother wouldn’t have been battering me with a wrench yesterday.’

  The younger Wharton clenched his fists and his face reddened. ‘You can’t prove that.’ he said, his teeth gritted. His brother turned to flash him a warning look, and the big man subsided.

  ‘I don’t need to,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s not important. What is important is that I know. I know your dirty little family secret. Now we need to decide what happens next.’

  Cal Wharton opened his mouth to speak again, but his brother waved him to stay silent. The Chief looked straight at Nightingale, then took out a pack of Camels and lit one. ‘Feel free if you want to, Nightingale. You’ve got the look of a smoker.’

  Nightingale lit a Marlboro, but said nothing. He’d called their bluff, it was their play now.

/>   ‘Suppose you tell me exactly what your part is in all of this,’ said the Chief.

  ‘I have some experience of...the unusual, and I was asked to help the Deadmans. Their kids were being disturbed by a presence in the house.’

  ‘What kind of ‘unusual’ are we talking about?’ asked the Chief .

  ‘You believe in ghosts, Chief?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘Did your mother?’

  Cal Wharton clenched his fists again. ‘You leave...’

  His brother held up a hand to silence him again. ‘Why you ask that?’

  ‘It might explain why she left the old house all those years ago. Either of you ever see anything odd there? Feel anything strange?’

  They looked at each other, and shook their heads. ‘Not that I remember,’ said the Chief. ‘But it was nigh on forty years ago when we left. What you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m guessing your mother told you about it. Probably in the last few years, when her mind was starting to go. I don’t know if she’d seen, or sensed their presence and if that was why she left the old house. I do know they prey on her mind still. I think she talks to them. In her mind, anyway, what’s left of it.’

  ‘Exactly what do you think you know, Mister?’ said Cal Wharton.

  ‘I’ve seen them,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve felt their terror, their isolation. Heard them scream.’

  ‘You’re proposing to stand up in court and tell the Judge you’ve seen ghosts up at the mansion?’ asked the Chief.

  ‘No. I doubt there’ll be any need for a court case, but that depends on you.’

  ‘What do you mean? Assuming I know what you’re talking about.’

  Nightingale blew smoke, and smiled. ‘It’ll be quicker if we assume that. Look, I’ll put my cards on the table. I know what is haunting the mansion, I know why. All I don’t know is where they are. Though I can make a very good guess, and I could probably find the location.’