Elizabeth Hand - Wylding Hall

The stairway was lit by a strange ghostly light, just enough to see by. Yet I saw no lamps or windows. It was as though the light seeped from the stone. I crept along, afraid I’d lose my footing and crack my head. The walls pressed in on me, and the air was so cold my chest ached with each breath. It smelled dank and loamy, with a faint reek of rotted wood.

And it was deathly silent. I stopped once and stamped hard as I could on the steps. I heard only a whispery sound, like a falling leaf.

Goddam Julian , I thought. I thought it was some kind of bad joke, that he’d decided to take me down a peg. After five minutes, I stopped again, panting, and looked back.

That was a mistake.

Behind me, the passage spiraled down and down, deeper into shadows than I could have imagined, before it winked from sight entirely. My mouth went dry, and I clutched at the wall to keep from falling.

It was impossible that I could have climbed that high, impossible that the building could reach such a height, or plunge so deeply into the earth.

But when I turned, heart pounding, the stairs seemed to wind upwards just as endlessly, until they too disappeared. If I continued on, I’d walk into utter darkness. If I turned back, the same black spiral awaited me, coiling down into some unimaginable abyss.

I couldn’t budge. The thought of moving even a fraction of inch, forward or back, made me so dizzy, I was afraid I’d pass out. The steps were far too narrow for me to sit, so I leaned against the wall and tried to calm myself, counting backwards from a hundred.

I reached about fifty when I heard it. A voice so faint, I had to hold my breath to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. It was the same voice I’d heard the night Nancy was with us and we all held hands in the dark. I couldn’t make out any words.

Almost imperceptibly, it grew louder: loud enough that I realized it was singing. I still couldn’t understand the words, but after a few minutes I recognized the melody as a song by Thomas Campion.

Whoever was singing seemed to swallow the words: they became a mindless jumble, and try as I might, I couldn’t recall them, even though the sound was growing closer.

And now I could hear another sound — a kind of slithering, like something being slowly dragged up the steps.

Or something dragging itself. The wordless song went on. The dank air grew putrid, until I gagged and clapped my hand to my mouth.

With that sudden motion I found I could move again — and I did. I raced up those stairs so fast I nearly tripped, gasping and trying not to choke on that smell. Ahead of me, the gray light grew brighter, until a silver line sliced through the darkness — the outline of a door.

Behind me, the slithering became a high-pitched rattle that drowned out the wordless song. I reached the top step and flung myself against the door, pounding as I searched for a latch. My fingers closed around a metal spike and I yanked at it, pulling until the door inched open. I angled around to squeeze through—

And I swear to you, the door began to close on me. I clawed at the wood, but it only squeezed more and more tightly.

Then, all at once, I was on the other side and stumbling down the hall. I didn’t stop till I saw my bandanna tied outside a bedroom. I grabbed it and kept on running, through the corridors and down the stairs to the rehearsal room.

Ashton nearly had a heart attack when I burst inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, but I just slammed the door shut and pulled a chair in front of it. I wouldn’t talk until he found a bottle of whiskey and shoved it at me. When I could talk, I gave him some bollocks about needing to use the telephone for an urgent call. Of course, by the time I drank half the bottle and managed to calm myself down, I forgot all about the telephone. Took me the rest of the day before I felt anything like myself again and could pick up my guitar.

I never told Ashton what really happened, or anyone else. At first I was afraid they’d laugh at me. Later, I was afraid they’d be angry I hadn’t told them sooner. I never told anyone, till now.

Nancy

I wish Lesley had told me what was going on with Julian. Eventually, she did, but it was months later. I know that they all scoff at what I do, but Julian didn’t. I was the only one who might have been able to talk to him — we were on a similar wavelength, we shared a lot of the same interests. Not the occult so much as arcana — antiquarian books, medieval grimoires, Dr. Dee. Books of knowledge. Things like that. If I’d had a better sense of what he was up to, I might have done something to help, especially after that night on the floor when we heard the voice.

As it was, next morning he and I took a long walk in the woods, very early. Everyone else was passed out. I couldn’t sleep because Will was snoring — he was a terrible snorer. I kept kicking him, but he wouldn’t budge, so I finally gave up and went downstairs to make some tea.

Julian was the only one up. I don’t think he’d even been asleep — Lesley told me later that some nights he’d only sleep for an hour or two before he’d go off into the wood.

But now he seemed wide awake, in good spirits, but quiet. Thoughtful. We didn’t talk about what had happened the night before, when I’d flashed into whatever it was he’d summoned up. We didn’t need to. I knew he knew, and he knew I did. It happens like that. Not often, but sometimes.

We had tea and eggs, he had a smoke, then asked if I’d like to go for a walk. I wasn’t really dressed for a hike, long skirt and suede boots, but in those days I didn’t care about things like that.

It was a perfect summer morning, daisies and campion in bloom, skylarks singing. Butterflies everywhere, wood nymphs and orange tips. Even though it was warm, Julian had on his old corduroy jacket, the one you see in all the pictures. The air had that sweet green smell you get before the leaves begin their turn toward autumn. Dew on the ground, everything shone and dazzled. Like walking inside a kaleidoscope — every shade of green you can imagine, and blue sky beyond, tiny birds hopping everywhere.

Julian was singing to himself, “Thrice Tosse These Oaken Ashes.” It was the first time I’d ever heard it — this was months before the album came out. He’d set it to his own music, though there were echoes of that eerie melody we’d heard the night before.

Or, not echoes: more like an absence of sound. As though he’d taken all the silences in a piece of music and strung them together.

It was beautiful, but chilling. Much more so than the version on the album. If things had turned out differently, if they’d been able to record more than one take of Julian’s voice — maybe then you’d have a true sense of how it was supposed to sound. It made the hairs on my neck stand up.

That was when I remembered what the farmer had said. He should stay away from the wood. All of them …

But it was broad daylight, and there were two of us — if me or Julian had fallen or turned an ankle, we’d have been able to manage. Still, that singing unnerved me, and I was glad when he stopped.

There was a path through the wood, not too overgrown. I think deer must have used it; there were red deer in Hampshire then. That was the direction we took. I asked Julian if he’d been that way before, and he said yes.

“There’s some ruins.” He seemed excited. His face was flushed, and he started laughing. “Wait till you see, it’s brilliant.”

“Have any of the others been here?”

“Not yet. I wanted to — well, I wanted to keep it secret.” He sounded a bit embarrassed. “I know that’s childish, but it’s such a beautiful place, I didn’t want everyone stamping over it. Having a party and leaving their bottles everywhere.”