Gary McMahon - Beyond Here Lies Nothing

When he reached the top of the stairs he was unable to move. He was too afraid to do anything but stand there, poised for fight or flight, and stare at the door frame. He drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists and moved.

“Fuck!” He screamed the word at the top of his voice, planning to shock whoever might be in there into making an error. But the room was empty; there was nobody inside. He looked around the room, looking for signs of interference, but nothing had been moved. He walked over to the model table and stared at the miniature layout of the estate. It took him a while to see it — longer than he would have thought possible, when he thought about it later — but eventually his eyes picked up on the changes.

Someone had added certain details to the model.

Small trees had sprouted, breaking through the roads and pavements and thrusting upwards. Windows were broken, cars were overturned, and yet more trees had appeared inside some of the tiny houses. He could see their shapes through the intact windows; in other places, spindly leafless branches poked through the shattered panes.

Dotted throughout the model neighbourhood were small figures, half-bodied scarecrows dressed in rags and supported on thin wooden stakes. They lolled at angles, leant against walls, and a couple of them had fallen over and seemed to be frozen in the act of crawling along the street, dragging their supporting columns behind them like battered and exposed backbones.

The biggest change had been wrought upon the Needle. The base of the tower block was wrapped in thick, gnarled roots, as if it were in the process of transforming into a massive oak tree. Trunks and branches had penetrated the concrete walls, growing from the inside, and snaked around the building, forming a fibrous spiral along its length.

Marc’s mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. Was somebody playing tricks on him, having a laugh at his expense? It might even be Abby. She was certainly psychologically damaged enough to think that something like this would be amusing.

He reached out and touched the wide, serpentine trunk that had wound itself around a portion of the Needle. It was not made out of paper or card, or even rubber and plastic. What he felt beneath his fingers was real wood. Like some kind of freakish bonsai, the small tree had taken root, sprouted, and started to grow.

Then he noticed the figures. He was sure they hadn’t been there, in this position, when he’d first entered the model room. Tiny scarecrows, their upper bodies wrapped in raggedy clothing, their lower bodies consisting of nothing more than cocktail sticks pushed into the ground, anchoring the figures in place. They were standing on the Roundpath, the narrow road that circled the Needle, looking up at the central tower. Each of them was wearing a floppy hat; their arms were outstretched, in a Jesus Christ pose. Marc wasn’t sure if they were caught in an act of worship or surrender. He didn’t think it made much difference either way.

The lamplight began to flicker, creating a strobe effect. Between one second of light and the next, something appeared on the model table. It was a small notebook, like the ones he’d found in the attic library. A patch of darkness moved away from the table; a quick, snaking movement, like an arm being drawn back.

“Harry? Is it you, Harry?” He was too anxious to feel stupid, but somehow the very idea of talking to a ghost felt wrong, awkward. He didn’t believe in ghosts… Or did he? If that were true, then why was he researching the Northumberland Poltergeist? And now that he thought about it, wasn’t he holding back on that research, keeping it at arm’s length? It was as if he were attached to a heavy weight by an elastic belt. Whenever he moved forward, the elastic became taut and it held him back. He could feel his feet sliding across the floor, moving backwards.

He stepped over to the model table and picked up the book. The front cover was dusty. He opened it to the first page. There wasn’t much written down there, but it was enough.

He read the words and felt doors opening up inside him:

Apart from the Pollack twins, there was a third child in the flat. A baby.

He closed his eyes and things twitched back there in the reddish darkness. Those doors stood ajar; they would not open fully, but it was enough for light to leak through the gap. Shadows twirled and danced; a ballet of darkness. Marc struggled to grab hold of whatever it was that capered there, inside him, but it was too slippery to get a grip on.

There was something there but he couldn’t make out what it was. Like a body under a sheet, he could discern only the outline. No details were visible.

He left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. In his hand, he gripped the notebook.

On the small landing, he stood with his back pressed up against the door, trying to convince himself that he could not hear the sounds of scrabbling from behind him, somewhere inside the room. On the table that held the model of the estate. He wasn’t quite ready to accept that. Such an admission would indicate a state of mind that he wasn’t prepared to face.

In fact, admitting that those sounds were real would be akin to embracing madness.

Downstairs, he sat on the sofa and began to read the rest of the notebook.

Apart from the Pollack twins, there was a third child in the flat. A baby. 10

Jack Pollack died when he was thirteen. He was found hanging from a rafter in the squat where he lived.

Daisy Pollack turned to prostitution when she was fourteen, then drugs. She was dead in a gutter by the time she was fifteen.

Nobody knows what happened to the baby. 11There is no record of the twins having another sibling — itself a surviving twin who’s brother was stillborn, if local gossips are to be believed. 12After the events in the Needle, when it seems that some kind of spirit came through and wrecked the flat, the family disappeared — they seem to have vanished off the face of the earth, up until the car crash that killed the parents. All the stories and rumours told on the estate make specific mention of the twins and what happened to them, but not once have I been told about a baby.

But there was a baby. I’ve seen it. The baby came to me in a waking dream. It crawled across the ceiling of my room and spoke to me, telling me that nothing ever ends and nothing ever begins, and saying that Captain Clickety will return.

The baby is already here. It’s found its way out of the woods and has come to finish the story. The story is that of the baby… should I tell him?

10Should I tell him? I have no idea. But I must make a decision soon.

11Whose baby was it? Were the Pollacks its real parents? Did Mike take it in out of duty or pity, or for some other reason?

12And why not? They’ve been right about everything else so far.

SHE KNEW THAT she was dreaming, even though she was asleep, so when she woke up she was at first puzzled by her surroundings. The room was dim, with just a desk lamp to light it, and instead of trees and moonlight glinting between dried leaves, there were solid walls, a desk — upon which she’d been sleeping, with her head resting on her hands — and a variety of medical apparatus.

“Wha…?” She could barely speak. Her mind was fogged. She didn’t even know what day it was, let along what time. She could see the night sky through the tiny basement window.

“Wanda,” she said, remembering her name. Miss Wandaful , said a soft voice inside her head. She smiled, rubbed her short hair with her hand, then reached around and scratched the back of her neck.

She’d been working late, as usual. These days there was little to go home for, and the police station offered a solace that her tiny one-bedroom flat no longer seemed to supply. Not since Katherine had moved out, anyway.