The Haunted Book Page 5

I poured my own cup onto a potted fern, idly wondering what the phenobarbital would do to the plant, and wiped my hands on a kerchief. Transferring him to my Vale View Road residence was going to be a challenge, given his size.

  But finally, the time had come. My human host was ready.

  L.F. Greenway

  MESSAGES FROM BEYOND

  ‘Snurgh.’ Dale snorted awake, rubbed his eyes and wiped a string of drool from his chin.

  He was in bed. He had been reading on the couch—could Dad have carried him to bed? He hadn’t done that since … Dale couldn’t even remember the last time.

  He was both embarrassed and touched. His father was a fairly gruff, unsentimental man, or at least he appeared to be. But from time to time he’d arrange the food in a smiley face on Dale’s plate, or give him an unexpected hug, leaving Dale feeling like a little kid again.

  The book rested on the pillow beside him. Dale didn’t pick it up. Thinking about it made him feel faintly sick. On the one hand, these new events should have made him more convinced that he was reading a work of crime fiction. But the little details in the text—plus the fact that it was all handwritten—gave it the ring of truth. Which meant this was the actual diary of a kidnapper who had lived there in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

  And who might still be lurking in the woods outside.

  Dale shook his head, trying to dislodge that last thought. Immortality was impossible. As Luke Greenway had pointed out, thousands of people had tried it over the years, and literally none had succeeded.

  It might be time to get a different book off the shelves. This one was messing with his head too much.

  Dale checked his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He’d missed dinner—but someone, probably Mum, had left a plate on his bedside table. Dale wolfed down some crispy carrot sticks, celery slices and cheese cubes, dipping them in a dollop of spicy jalapeño hummus. Even sleep seemed to make him hungry these days.

  Dale stood, stretched, and stumbled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He ran a flannel under hot water, and as the bathroom filled with steam, he used it to wipe his face and hands. The toothpaste tube was almost empty, but he managed to squeeze a little out onto his toothbrush. He stuck it in his mouth and started scrubbing.

  Then he looked in the mirror.

  For a moment he was reminded of the dream, in which he had seen not his own reflection, but that of the old man.

  This was different. This was real life.

  And while the boy in the mirror was just himself, that wasn’t what had caught Dale’s eye.

  Something was written on the mirror. It had been invisible until the steam stuck to the glass around it, but now it was unmistakable. It had been scrawled with a fingertip, and the style was just like the handwriting in the diary.

  It read:

  L.F. Greenway

  ALONE

  Every instinct told Dale to scream. He had no doubt now. The old man in the forest had been Luke Greenway, and now he was in the house. He had chosen his next victim—Dale!

  But if Dale screamed, Greenway would hear. He would know that Dale was in the bathroom and had found the signature.

  Why had he written on the mirror at all? He could have simply snatched Dale from his bed.

  Sarah’s voice echoed through his mind, about what would happen to someone with eternal life. After a hundred years or so, you’d be as crazy as a bandicoot.

  Dale took a quick look around the bathroom. There was nothing he could use to defend himself, unless he planned to whip Greenway with a towel or squirt soap into his eyes. Barehanded, he edged out of the bathroom into the hallway.

  None of the lights were on, but pale moonlight trickled through the windows. The ceiling seemed higher than before, the walls further away. Dale crept down the hall, dreading every creaking floorboard under his bare feet.

  What if Greenway had already found Sarah, Mum and Dad? What if something bad had happened to them?

  Dale’s heart felt like it might explode. He took a deep, silent breath. He couldn’t allow himself to panic.

  A shuffling sound.

  Dale froze. Could that have been a footstep?

  He turned his head, but couldn’t see anything in the blackness. It was hard to tell where the sound had come from. Hard to hear anything over the roaring of blood in his ears.

  He started to creep forward again, one careful footstep at a time. And then—

  Another shuffle. Like papers being moved on a desk.

  ‘Booooooooy.’

  Chills crawled up the back of Dale’s neck. The voice—deep but thin, like the voice of an old man—had come from somewhere behind him. Was Greenway in his room? Or had he slipped into the bathroom after Dale left?

  ‘Booooy?’

  Greenway sounded almost playful. A door creaked. Had Greenway been hiding in Dale’s room all this time?

  Dale took another cautious, quiet step towards his parents’ bedroom.

  ‘Boy!’

  This time the voice hissed right into his ear.

  Dale screamed and bolted. Greenway had gone from the bedroom to right behind him in the space of a second. What hope did Dale have of outrunning him?

  He could feel Greenway looming—not so much a man as a dark force, like an approaching hurricane made of rage and hunger. Something which couldn’t be locked up or reasoned with. Something which would swallow Dale whole if it caught him.

  But he was nearly there. ‘Mum! Dad!’ he yelled as he ran, hands extended.

  ‘Boy!’ the voice jeered behind him. ‘I’m coming for you, boy!’

  ‘Dad!’ Dale shouted again. ‘Mum!’

  And then he was there, crashing through the door of his parents’ bedroom and slamming it closed behind him.

  Dad had already switched on the light. He and Mum were sitting up in bed, sleepy-looking but alive. Dale could have wept with relief.

  ‘There’ssomeoneinthehousehelp!’ Dale said. He turned around and pressed his hands against the door, holding it closed.

  ‘Dale?’ Mum said. ‘What’s going on? Dale?’

  At first Dale didn’t even realise she was talking to him. The fear was crowding out his thoughts. It felt as if the planet had been knocked out of orbit, spinning further and further away from the sun until all the people were nameless shadows, whispering in the dark—

  ‘Dale!’

  ‘He’s out there!’ Dale stammered. ‘Greenway! He’s after me!’

  ‘Slow down,’ Dad said, as he clambered out of bed. ‘What’s wrong with the house?’

  ‘There’s someone here—he wrote a message on the bathroom mirror, and I went to wake you guys but I heard him calling out to me and then he chased me in here!’

  His parents exchanged glances. Dale had seen that look before. They didn’t believe him.

  ‘Claude,’ Mum began, ‘if you didn’t tell the kids such scary stories—’

  ‘It wasn’t a nightmare!’ Dale shrieked. ‘We have to help Sarah! She probably doesn’t even know she’s in danger.’

  Dad smoothed down his pyjamas and walked over to where Dale stood by the door.

  ‘I didn’t hear anyone out there except you,’ he said. ‘But I’ll take a look around, OK?’

  ‘He’s dangerous,’ Dale said. ‘He used to live here a hundred and sixty years ago, and he kidnapped someone, and—’

  ‘You’re not making any sense,’ Dad said. ‘Did you say a hundred and sixty years ago?’

  ‘It’s true!’ Dale insisted. ‘It’s the same guy I saw beside the highway. He used to own the house, and then he found some way to live forever, and then he—’

  ‘It’s OK, buddy,’ Dad said. ‘Relax. We’re going to go take a look around together, OK?’

  He gently pushed Dale’s hands aside and opened the door.

  ALONE

  Dale stood beside his father in the doorway, staring into the darkness. Dale could feel Greenway watching them back.

  Dale saw something mo
ve. He raised his hands, ready to fend off an attack.

  Dad flicked on the light. The corridor was empty. Dad didn’t seem surprised by this, but Dale was. He had seen movement in the gloom just a second ago, and there was nowhere to hide. Where had Greenway gone?

  Dad padded into the living room and turned another light on. The couch, the coffee table and the TV were illuminated. No sign of Greenway.

  ‘He was right here,’ Dale said.

  Patiently, Dad led Dale through the house, turning on each and every light. Halfway through the search, Sarah’s door creaked open.

  ‘What are you guys doing?’ Sarah mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Nothing,’ Dad said. ‘Sorry we woke you. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘No!’ Dale cried. ‘Don’t go back to sleep. There is someone in this house. Someone who isn’t us. Someone bad.’

  Sarah blinked and looked at Dad.

  Dad sighed. ‘Dale had a nightmare. He—’

  ‘Check the mirror,’ Dale said. ‘He wrote a message.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dad said. He looked relieved. Perhaps he thought that this would be an easy way to prove that this was all in Dale’s head.

  But the message was really there—wasn’t it?

  Dad led Dale into the bathroom. Sarah and Mum followed them in. They all stared at the mirror.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ Sarah said.

  Nor did Dale. The mirror looked completely normal.

  ‘Turn on the hot water,’ Dale said.

  ‘This has gone far enough,’ Dad said. ‘It’s late. You should both be in bed.’

  Dale ignored him. He reached past Dad and twisted the hot tap. Warm water gushed into the sink, filling the room with steam—

  And Sarah screamed.

  There was the message, just as clear as it had been before.

  L.F. Greenway

  Dad stared at it for a long moment.

  ‘See?’ Dale said. ‘You … you can see that, right?’

  Dad turned to Sarah. ‘Sarah,’ he said, ‘I think you owe your cousin an apology.’

  ‘What?’ Sarah boggled at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s scared out of his wits,’ Dad said. ‘Now, I can take a joke, but—’

  ‘I didn’t do this!’ Sarah said. ‘Why would I do this? Dale, tell him!’

  Dale didn’t respond. He just kept staring at the mirror. At first he didn’t even recognise himself—who was that jittery boy with the dark circles around his eyes? Who was the worried-looking girl? Who were the two adults?

  ‘Dale!’ Sarah said again.

  Dale didn’t react until she prodded him in the shoulder.

  ‘It wasn’t her,’ Dale said. ‘Someone chased me through the house. A man.’

  ‘Sarah,’ Dad said. ‘If you tell us the truth, right now, I won’t be mad. Sometimes pranks go a little bit too far. I get that. But—’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Sarah said. ‘I swear.’

  Dad rubbed his eyes. ‘Fine, have it your way. Back to bed, everyone.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t be mad,’ Sarah objected.

  ‘If you told the truth,’ Dad said. ‘You’re clearly lying to us—I didn’t do it, and Michelle didn’t do it, and Dale clearly didn’t.’

  ‘It wasn’t Sarah,’ Dale said again.

  Dad turned to him. ‘Dale, listen to me. I know how disorienting it can be to wake up from a bad dream, but that’s all this was.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s all it was,’ Dad said firmly. ‘People don’t disappear into thin air, or live for hundreds of years. I raised you better than to tolerate nonsense like that.’

  Dale felt his face become hot. How could Dad not believe him? The words were right there on the mirror. He had heard Greenway moving around the house. Taunting him. Shouting at him. Dale wouldn’t imagine that, and he wouldn’t make it up.

  ‘Both of you are going to bed,’ Dad said. ‘Right now.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ Dale began.

  ‘Now.’

  Dale turned on his heel and stormed off.

  Fine, he thought. Go back to bed and get attacked by a lunatic. See if I care.

  He felt guilty as soon as the thought entered his brain. It wasn’t Dad’s fault that something impossible was happening. If Dale were in his position, listening to someone else describe an immortal vanishing man in the house, he wouldn’t believe it either.

  But there was nothing Dale could do. So he closed the door and sat down on the bed.

  His parents wouldn’t help. Sarah couldn’t. He had no phone reception, so he couldn’t call anybody else. He was going to have to deal with this himself.

  But how?

  What could stop an invincible, apparently superfast home invader?

  If Greenway had a weakness, there was only one place Dale would find it.

  He picked up the diary and began to read.

  Part Three: Credence B

  When Mr Sop regained consciousness in my basement, he was, understandably, quite indignant.

  I had fastened him to a tabletop with manacles and fetters, and steadied a bright light on his eyes so I could measure the dilation of his pupils.

  I informed him that the discomfort would be temporary, but he didn’t seem reassured.

  ‘Release me at once!’ he bellowed.

  His speech didn’t seem impaired. With any luck, the phenobarbital had done no permanent damage to his throat or his brain.

  ‘All in good time,’ I said. ‘Once the serum has taken effect.’

  ‘Serum? What serum? Remove these chains this instant!’

  ‘I call it Credence B,’ I said. ‘It’s a hallucinogenic compound which makes the patient highly suggestible. It’s made from the jelly of a fungus which, as luck would have it, grows nearby.’

  ‘Patient?’ he roared. ‘I’m no patient of yours! I—’

  Suddenly he began to retch and convulse. I grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head sideways, ensuring that if he vomited, his airway would remain clear.

  ‘What’s that awful stench?’ he demanded when he had caught his breath.

  I pointed at the bucket of dead rats in the corner. ‘That would be the victims of Credence A,’ I said. ‘It took me some time to perfect the formula. I apologise for the odour.’

  ‘The odour?! How about the kidnapping? How about injecting me with Clearance B?’

  ‘Credence B,’ I corrected, ‘is absorbed through the skin, not injected. After repeated exposure, it brings on a state resembling dissociative identity disorder. Tell me, Mr Smith, how do you feel?’

  ‘Enraged,’ he said. ‘People will be looking for me. They—’

  ‘I very much doubt it. I observed that you didn’t react when I called you “Smith”.’

  ‘I—’ He became quiet.

  ‘You didn’t notice,’ I said, ‘did you?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Do you recall your real name?’

  He stared at me with growing terror.

  ‘I thought not. See, no-one misses you—not even yourself.’

  ‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why have you done this to me?’

  It was so I would not find myself dead and forgotten like my mother, but I didn’t feel the need to tell him that.

  ‘The Credence B is erasing your personality,’ I said, ‘and making room for a new one. Your empty brain is searching for material from which to fashion an identity. As we speak, I am providing that material. Simply by listening to my voice, you are becoming me. ‘

  L.F. Greenway

  OUT INTO THE NIGHT

  Sarah threw her sock at the wall as hard as she could. It hit the plaster with a faint slap and flopped onto the carpet. She picked up another and hurled it with her other hand. When she ran out of socks, she crossed over to the pile and started throwing them back in the opposite direction.

  This was her rage-buster routine. She knew people who screamed into pillows, or played destructive video games, but she preferred this. It was q
uiet, but physical.

  Sarah sometimes exaggerated things—just for the benefit of the listener, she didn’t want to bore people—and was occasionally caught out. This wasn’t the first time she’d told the truth and been doubted.

  To accuse her of lying was one thing. But to tell Dale he was out of his mind, when he had clearly seen something and was so visibly scared …

  She crushed a sock in her fist before throwing it. If only she could talk to Dale. She needed to work out exactly what was going on. But she couldn’t get to his bedroom without passing her aunt and uncle’s room, and they probably had the door open. That was exactly the sort of sneaky, non-trusting thing parents would do.

  She looked up at the dusty window. It was closed, but not locked. Maybe …

  She grabbed the rusty latch and twisted it. With a soft scraping sound, it turned. The wind whistled around the edges of the frame as the window popped slightly ajar.

  If Sarah could get outside, she could sneak around to Dale’s bedroom without his parents seeing her.

  The window was too high to climb out. Very slowly, she dragged her bed over, wincing at every thump and grinding sound. Then she pulled her shoes on, hopped up onto the squeaky mattress and pushed the window all the way open.

  The freezing air hit her right away. She shivered. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  But what else was she going to do? Sleep? No, she was too on-edge. Throw socks at the wall? Do nothing, while something wrote messages on the bathroom mirror and chased Dale around the house?

  She scrambled up through the window frame and tumbled out into the night.

  She landed on a folded plastic tarpaulin, which did little to cushion the impact of the wooden decking underneath, but did make a loud crackling noise. She froze, trying to work out if anyone had heard her.

  There was no sound other than the wind rustling the leaves in the distant treetops. Perhaps she had gotten away with it.

  She stepped off the tarp and started to walk around the outside of the house, her arms crossed over her chest. A faintly pink moon peered down from a black velvet sky. An owl hooted somewhere in the forest. Sarah thought she could hear leathery wings up above.