Simon Green - Spirits from Beyond

Lydia looked to be seventeen, eighteen-a pleasant-looking girl. Average height, perhaps a little heavier than current fashions would allow, with a broad, pretty face and a great mop of curly black hair that tumbled down to her shoulders. She wore jeans and a blue-and-white blouse, and a pale blue bandana across her brow to hold her hair in place. She studied JC openly, reacting to his appearance quite normally, as though both of them were real.

“Hi!” said JC. “Sorry to intrude; I must have the wrong room. I’m JC Chance, visiting Bishop’s Fording.”

“That’s all right,” said the ghost girl. “I’m Lydia. My dad runs this place. Are you staying here long?”

“Just passing through,” said JC.

“Is my father looking after you all right?” said Lydia. “We don’t get many staying guests these days.”

“It’s been an interesting visit, so far,” said JC. “Lots to see and do.”

They both smiled and chatted easily together for a while. JC did his best to be kind and gentle with her and not say anything that might challenge her view of reality. She clearly didn’t know there was anything unnatural going on. She didn’t know she was dead. Didn’t remember hanging herself, in this very room. Didn’t know the father she talked about so easily had been dead for decades. She still thought she was another teenage girl, with everything to live for. Though JC did notice that she didn’t ask him some very obvious questions, like why was he wearing sunglasses indoors.

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend, Adrian,” Lydia said cheerfully. “Though. . it does feel like I’ve been waiting for him for some time now. . I hope he’ll be here soon.”

JC smiled and nodded. He didn’t see any point in telling her she’d already been waiting forty years.

Lydia frowned for the first time. “I hope nothing’s happened to Adrian. .”

“I’m sure he’s not far off,” said JC. “Are you all right, here?”

“I suppose so,” said Lydia. “I’m comfortable, I’ve got everything I need. . Though every now and again the door opens, and this old man looks in. He isn’t any bother, he never says anything; but he always looks so sad. .”

“Do you recognise him?” JC said carefully.

“Oh no,” said Lydia. “He’s far too old to be anyone I’d know!” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, there is a good chance that he might be a ghost! This pub is famous for them, you know.”

“Yes,” said JC. “I know.”

“Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one,” said Lydia, grinning.

“You’re not frightened of ghosts?” said JC.

“No,” said Lydia. “I don’t know why anyone would be. They’re just people, after all.”

“I’ve bothered you long enough,” said JC. “I’ll leave you alone now. Nice to meet you, Lydia.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Chance,” said Lydia. “You couldn’t do me a favour; could you? Take a look down the corridor and tell me if you see my Adrian coming?”

“Yes,” said JC. “I’ll take a look.”

He left the room and shut the door behind him. His last glimpse of Lydia was of her returning to the magazine she’d been reading for forty years. Out on the landing, Adrian Brook stood with his back to the door, his shoulders shaking as he fought to hold back tears.

* * *

After a while, they headed back down the landing, to the top of the stairs. It took JC a while to realise that there was something wrong with the light. The electric light bulbs were still burning steadily; but the nature of the light had changed. It had deepened, into an unpleasant orange-red glow, like sunlight that had soured and gone off. The sound of their footsteps had changed, too-softer, muffled, as though the floor-boards underfoot had gone rotten. The air on the landing smelled flat and dusty, like air in a room that’s been left shut up for too long. And, one by one, the doors ahead of them began to open, swinging slowly inwards; without making even the slightest sound. They hung back, invitingly, offering access to the rooms beyond, and all that they contained. Brook started to say something, and JC put a steadying hand on his arm.

“Don’t look into any of the rooms,” JC said quietly. “Look straight ahead and keep walking. There’s nothing in any of these rooms that you or I would want to see.”

They walked on down the landing. As they passed each door, it slammed loudly shut behind them, in a bad-tempered sort of way. JC kept his hand on Brook’s arm, squeezing it reassuringly now and again. He didn’t want the barman panicking, so close to the stairs. He had a very strong feeling that this would be a very bad place to show weakness. He remembered Brook’s telling how Space itself had become unhinged, here on the landing, stretching away forever. . JC didn’t want to have to cope with that.

They’d almost made it to the top of the stairs when there was a sudden movement in the last room they passed; and JC shot a quick glance through the open doorway, in spite of himself. He caught a quick glimpse of something like a roomful of vegetation, stirring and rustling; and then he pulled his gaze away. They reached the top of the stairs, and JC allowed himself a small internal sigh of relief as he looked down the stairs and found them perfectly normal and unchanged. This time, he led the way down. Making a deliberately loud clatter on the steps so that Happy and Melody would hear him coming. Melody did still have her machine-pistol, after all, and a frequently stated willingness to shoot first and ask questions at the funeral.

* * *

As it turned out, the pair of them barely looked round as JC and Brook re-entered the bar. Happy and Melody were sitting perched on their high stools, at opposite ends of the bar-counter. Melody was bent over her lap-top, glaring at the screen and hitting the keyboard so hard the whole machine jumped under her pounding fingertips. Happy was sitting quietly, staring at nothing, or at least nothing any of the others could see. His face was empty, his mouth a flat line; he looked more thoughtful than anything. Brook hurried past JC and went behind the counter to pour himself another large measure of the good brandy. He seemed a little more settled, back in his own territory. But he still had to hold his brandy glass with both hands, to keep it steady. JC moved in beside Melody.

“All quiet upstairs,” he said cheerfully. “More or less. Though quite possibly, the quiet that comes before the storm. I met Lydia-charming young lady. Bit sad, of course, but reasonably composed for someone who killed herself forty years ago. Are you even listening to a word I’m saying, Melody? Or are you still sulking because you haven’t got all your proper equipment to play with?”

Melody growled under her breath and slapped at the lap-top, to make it clear how annoyed with the machine she was for not doing what it was supposed to do.

“Absolutely nothing useful to report, JC. This piece of shit is acting up like you wouldn’t believe. If I had my proper equipment, I could do you a full scan of this pub and the surroundings, and get you some proper answers. As it is, the scanners aren’t picking up anything, near or far, and I can’t get a single reading on the local power source, wherever or whatever it is.”

They both looked around, startled, interrupted by the rising sounds of the storm outside. The wind and the rain were growing steadily louder and more aggressive. The windows jumped and rattled in their frames as the wind slammed against them. The rain was really throwing it down now, pounding against the leaded glass of the windows; while outside the King’s Arms, the wind howled and shrieked and prowled around and around the inn, like some great beast trying to find a way in.