Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Terror

Several minutes later, without warning, the path opened to reveal the totally unexpected.

“No!” Braking he leaned forward to stare at what lay ahead. “I don’t believe it!”

“A house! Stephen, it’s a house!”

A mansion set against a wall of trees. A tall building with twisted chimneys and arched windows now illuminated by the glare of headlights and the flashes of lightning accompanying the growing fury of the storm. An old house that squatted like a decaying beast beneath sagging eaves. One with warped frames and scabs of lichen, flaking bricks and mouldering tiles. The relic of a bygone age; the path they had followed the remains of a once-tended drive.

“A house,” she said again. “There must be people.” Then, as he made no effort to move, “See if we’re welcome. Find out where we are. Ask if you can use the phone.”

She’d turned on the radio by the time he returned, the sound fuzzed and distorted. Thunder rolled as he switched it off. As it faded she said, “Well?”

“No luck.”

“What?”

“The place is empty,” he explained. “Deserted. I couldn’t get an answer and saw no signs of life. It must have been abandoned years ago. We’ll have to keep moving.”

The car moved forward as he engaged the drive, swinging wide to avoid a pool, straightening to sweep the house with searchlight clarity.

“Wait!” Diane caught at his arm. “I saw something in an upper window. A face. It looked like a face.”

“A reflection.”

“A face,” she insisted. “Someone is watching us.”

He grunted, making no comment, fighting the wheel as the car skidded towards the pool. Rain hammered on the roof, gushed over the windscreen, churned the ground to mud as the storm, breaking, filled the air with noise and fury. Abruptly he braked and cut the ignition.

“Stephen?”

“We’ll have to take shelter in the house. This rain will wash out the roads. If we get wrecked no one will ever find us. Get to the door. I’ll follow after I switch off the lights.”

“Can’t you leave them?”

“And run down the battery? Not a chance. The lightning will guide us. Hurry!”

She ran, long legs flashing, her coat lifted to protect her hair. He followed after collecting the bag of provisions from the boot; cans of meat, crackers, pickles, pate and some wine. Items picked up at a local store as a bribe in return for directions. A place a county away now. A world.

The door, sheltered by a weathered portico, had defied her attempts to open it. With sudden impatience he lifted his boot and slammed it against the lock. Wood splintered, yielded beneath a second onslaught, the door opening with a creak of hinges. Air gusted from the dark interior, chill, tainted with a sickly odour.

“Quick.” Stephen led the way. “Inside.”

Lighting illuminated the interior with stroboscopic flashes; a wide hall, bare boards, stairs that wound upwards, doors that were closed, a box on which rested a stub of candle. It flared to life as Diane set fire to the wick. From the walls faces stared with brooding hostility.

Lifting the candle Stephen examined the framed portraits. All were of men and bore a common likeness; the jowls heavy, the lips full, the chin deeply cleft. Some wore wigs, others had ribboned hair, some were proudly bald. Their eyes seemed to move in the flickering light.

“It’s cold.” Diane shivered. “Can’t we light a fire?”

“Not here.” The gaping fireplace held nothing but dust and wind carried rain through the open door. “I’ll look upstairs. Shut the door and find the lights.”

There were no lights; the house had never been wired for electricity or piped for gas and any lamps had long since vanished. There were no more candles but Stephen found a bowl of grease that held a wick. It threw a guttering light and emitted a noisome odour. Hastily he extinguished it.

“We’ll make do with the candle. There’s a room upstairs with a fireplace and a few chairs the looters didn’t take. They’ll do for fuel.”

“Looters?”

“Owners, then, I don’t know. Whoever cleared this place. Relatives, friends, debtors, thieves, who can tell?” He paused on the stairs and looked at the portraits. “This must have been a family home but they died out long ago. No modern costumes, see? The land gave out and the money, and the workers would have left. The owners would have clung on from habit and pride. A decaying aristocracy drifting into incest, perversion, degeneracy. Winding up as idiots. Dying out in the end. It’s an old story.”

Diane said, thoughtfully, “Why didn’t they sell the portraits? If they had to get rid of everything else then why keep them? Why leave them here?”

“For the same reason you leave headstones in a graveyard. Fear. Respect – this was their home, remember. In a way it still is.” Chuckling he added, “I’ve an idea. Let’s invite them to dinner. Take them upstairs. It’ll add to the adventure. Come on, darling, help me.”

“No.” She didn’t want to touch the portraits. “Do it if you must. I’ll start the fire and set the table.”

There was no table, only a section of the floor, the bright labels of the provisions a glaring contrast to the warped and time-stained boards. The wine had come with plastic cups.

Stephen poured, solemnly lifted his container and bowed to the row of faces he had set against a wall.

“To your very good health, my lords. I salute you!”

Diane watched, not amused. It was more idiocy to add to the rest; the tiresome journey, the search for ancient places, his interest in the house, the ridiculous urge that had made him bring the mouldering portraits into the room. Not all of them, most still remained in the hall, but those he had chosen seemed to have a special vibrancy.

“Here!” Stephen offered her wine. “It’s your turn to make a toast.”

“Must I?”

“Not if you don’t want to. But drink it anyway, it’ll help you to relax.”

Accepting the container she stepped towards the window and looked out into the night and the storm. It had yet to ease and distant flashes walked on the hills and thunder echoed like gunfire. She drank and turned, quickly, suddenly startled. Wine splashed over her hand.

“Is something wrong?” Stephen, at her side, was concerned.

“It’s nothing. I just – it’s nothing.”

“You saw something,” he said. “Look.” Turning her to face the window he said, “You saw me. My reflection. Did you think I was a ghost?”

Pale against the night he could have been but, if so, she was another. Reflections caught in the mirror the window had become. Two figures almost of an equal height, his thinner, older, hers making no secret of her sex. As she watched she saw his hand rise, move, felt the touch of his fingers, the pressure of his flesh, the yielding of her own.

“My darling,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.”

A long moment in which she felt herself begin to respond then the glare of lightning destroyed the reflections and the blast of thunder made the floor quiver and the flames dance in the grate. Flames that died as the candle died.

“Damn!” Stephen poked at the embers. “I can’t eat in the dark. We’ll have to use the bowl.”

The one filled with a rancid grease which yielded an odour which now oddly seemed less repugnant than earlier. By its light he opened cans and packets and dispensed the food. Eating he looked at the row of painted faces again lifting his container of wine in a silent toast. One in which Diane refused to share. The faces were too alive, the eyes gloating as they followed her every move, the lips moist, the teeth gleaming.

“Stephen, they’re horrible! Turn them to the wall!”

“Why? Don’t you like an audience?”