THE NIGHTMARE STONE

  THE NIGHTMARE STONE

  FINIAN BLACK was born in the Black Country in 1969. He lives in Winchester with his wife and children. This is his first novel.

  THE NIGHTMARE STONE

  Finian Black

  Copyright © 2012 by Finian Black

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.finianblack.com

  For Sara, Madeleine and George

  PROLOGUE

  Sandford-on-Thames, October 1911.

  The old house was called Sycamores, after the trees that stood sentinel along the drive that led up to it from the imposing gates. It loomed out of the blackness like a great iceberg, with cultivated lawns and winter-dug beds surrounding it, reflected in the light of the full moon. The harsh sound of a heron carried through the thin night air and a fox barked somewhere off in the distance.

  On the ground floor of the house, where a huge bay window stretched out southwards towards the main lawn, a chink of light broke through the heavy drapes. Inside, the fire was banked high and the air was hot and suffocating.

  William Riggs stood by the fire, leaning against the mantelpiece. He emptied his pipe into the hearth and turned to face a small cot set in the middle of room. His daughter lay on the cot, wrapped in sheets and blankets. Her face was white with pinches of red at each cheek, the blooms of fever. Dampness glistened on her forehead and the firelight danced in the sweat beads like daemons.

  The girl's lips were slightly apart; her breathing was shallow and rapid. Her eyelids flickered in a macabre jig. The sickness was consuming her quickly.

  Beside her, head bowed, the child's mother sat on a low stool. She was lost in personal grief, rocking slightly back and forth. When she finished whatever pathetic prayer she was muttering, she reached out and rested a hand over her daughter's fingers.

  'Come away now, Annabelle,' said her husband. 'There is no more to be done this evening. You heard the doctor. It's in God's hands now.'

  Annabelle Riggs lifted her reddened eyes up to her husband.

  'Leave her, William? How can I leave her? If the Lord is to take Edith from me, then he must come into this room and prise my fingers from hers. You retire if you must. I will not leave her for a moment.'

  Riggs did not speak. His own face gave away nothing. He placed the empty pipe onto the mantelpiece and stood up straight. Then he brushed off his smoking jacket and walked quietly from the room.

  The clock chimed eleven, then twelve. Still Annabelle kept her vigil. Eventually, she drew back the drapes a little and slipped the catch on one of the side windows, pushing against the frame until it opened an inch or so. Just enough to let the frozen air in. Just enough to press back the heavy fetid air that rose from her daughter's cracked lips.

  'Lord, You shall not have her,' Annabelle muttered. 'She is only twelve years old. Find room in Heaven for another soul this night.'

  She slumped into the nearest chair, exhausted. Her eyes grew heavier and even though she fought as hard as she could, sleep overcame her. Beside her, as the clock ticked steadily towards one o'clock, young Edith Riggs continued her battle with influenza.

  The fire burned down slowly. Annabelle slept deeply, the first proper rest she had managed for three nights. The house remained quiet and dark. Upstairs, where the rooms were chilled and ice was forming on the inside of the glass, the Riggs' staff huddled under blankets and coats, fitfully turning, shivering in their dreams. In a few hours they would be stirring from their rest to stoke the fires and prepare the house for another day.

  In the drawing room a whisper of wind blew through the unlocked window. A careful observer would have noticed the faintest tremor of the lead panes, a delicate smudge of the condensation. The same observer might have suspected that a shadow had drifted across the window, but the shadow was there and gone in an instant. Anyone could be forgiven for having missed it. Nobody could blame an exhausted mother who slept soundly just a few feet away.

  Edith seemed to settle down into the sweat-drenched sheets with a gentle sigh. There was a pause, then the child stirred. Her hands started to move. The shadow settled across her prone form, cutting out the yellow glow of the fire's embers. It moved first left then right, as if it wanted to touch her.

  Edith opened her eyes. The sclerae were yellowed, the veins enlarged and inflamed, but there was life there and not the cloudy vagueness of just a few hours ago. If her mother had woken, maybe just for a moment, she would have seen that her beloved child seemed to be fighting back, turning back the torrent of infection that had held her and taken her to the brink of death.

  But Annabelle was too asleep to be stirred by a shadow and a sigh. She slept on as Edith sat up in her cot. The child did not see her mother; saw nothing but the darkness in front of her. She lifted her slight frame from the bed and drifted on bare feet towards the open window. She pushed and it opened slowly until there was plenty of room for her to climb up onto the sill.

  She dropped down onto the frozen gravel. There was the faintest crunch but Edith did not flinch. She did not seem to even notice the cold or the hardness of the stones that bit into her soles. She started to walk across the gravel and onto the lawn. Her tiny footprints looked no bigger than a dog's paw prints and her step was light and easy. She appeared to be on the point of skipping. Her pale face was radiant. The faintest hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. In the moonlight, with the frost on the lawns and the mist swirling around her ankles, Edith could have been a ghost.

  Her own shadow was full. Behind her, sometimes ahead of her, another shadow moved at its own pace. It had no discernible shape. For a moment, it could have been a horse. Then, a bird. Suddenly, the shadow took on the form of a child, perhaps a boy. The arms were long, distorted by the frosty grass. The feet reached out towards a denser space. Something more tangible, something Edith could touch.

  But as she reached out a finger the shadow pulled away. Edith blinked and shook her head, as if the dreams in her mind were suddenly a little more stretched. Reality was for a moment closer to her again and she shivered.

  Then the shadow came back to envelop her and once more her face settled into a contented smile. She started to run, away from the house and towards the river Thames. Edith looked up into the dark sky and laughed out loud as she ran.

  'Please wait for me. This time, I want to go and not come back.'

  The dozing geese on the lawns moved restlessly as she danced among them. Within a few moments, Edith had moved along the edge of the small lake that came off the river at the end of the garden. She ran along the path that followed the course of the river. Her bare toes twitched against the brickwork holding back the great mass of water that flowed beneath her.

  Edith looked to her left, towards where the Lasher surged down into Sandford Pool. She could not see it in the darkness but the sound was immense. Thousands of gallons of water flowed over the weir every second and the pool itself would be a churning maelstrom. Nobody in their right mind would consider jumping in, even in daylight in high summer.

  Edith did not hesitate. She picked up the hem of her nightdress and stepped out into the abyss. She entered the water with barely a splash and started to swim. Within a moment the night had swallowed her.

  Back at Sycamores, a girl looked out from one of the tiny upstairs windows. She wiped away the condensation to try and see her friend below. She thought she had seen a hint of Edith's shape, a pale outline against the overwhelming darkness, but she could not be sure. Now the night was too complete and there was nothing to be seen. She heard the sound of her friend's laughter in the distance and she knew that she would be down by the river.

  'He's got you this time. He really has. God help you now, wherever you are.'

  The girl climbed back into her bed and pulled a blanket over herself. She sobbed quietly, knowing that she would never see Edith again.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  July 2011.

  The couple stood on the gravelled driveway, staring at the grand old house ahead. The man’s arm was draped loosely around the woman's shoulders. He leaned his head across towards hers until they were just touching. Her hair, blonde and long, contrasted with his brown. The early evening sunshine cut through the row of sycamore trees that stood along the drive, silhouetting the broken line of the roof.

  Clouds of midges danced like smoke around the couple. They both swatted the insects away and turned as one to face their car. A girl climbed out slowly. She rested her hands on her hips and looked at them. She had the same blonde hair as her mother, the same wide-set blue eyes. The same open smile. As her father looked at her, the sunlight shifted through the branches and cast a warm glow across the girl's face.

  'She's suddenly beautiful, Emma,' the man whispered. 'Look at her. This is going to be the best thing we've ever done.'

  'I think you're right, John,' replied his wife.

  'Let's get her over here and then we can get in,' said John. He waved at his daughter. 'Come on, Sophie. Come and see.'

  The girl ran towards them with an athlete's easy grace.

  'Oh, Dad, it looks so cool. Like a castle, or something. Like something from a book.'

  'It does, doesn't it? And it's all ours.'

  He wrapped an arm around his daughter and pulled her in close. He could smell the
warmth in her hair. She hugged him too.

  'Hasn't your Dad done an amazing job?' asked Emma, staring at the newly renovated house.

  'I think it's just perfect,' Sophie said in a quiet voice. 'I absolutely love it.'

  John led her towards the house, matching her step for step as they crunched over the gravel. When the family reached the front door, John took out a single key on a piece of string. A paper label hung down next to the metal. A single word was written on it in black ink.

  Sycamores.

  John looked up at the looming brickwork above him, at the lead windows, the ivy and wisteria curled up around the walls. He turned around to take in the drive and the sweeping lawns, the trees that moved gracefully in the lightest of winds. He looked back at his wife and daughter, both smiling at him.

  John turned the key in the lock and pushed against the oak door. It opened smoothly and they walked in, one at a time.

  ***

  It was dark inside the grand hallway; the doors leading off the space were all closed, and only the weakest of lights filtered down the staircase. Their feet echoed off the marble floor as they walked hesitantly towards where the stairs met the floor.

  My God. Have we really bought this place? It's like a small palace.

  John let his eyes roam upwards, taking it all in again; trying to see it through fresh eyes. Trying to see past the drawings and the sketches, the plaster and the paint.

  His mind drifted back to April. It had been a warm day, similar to this. A beautiful day. The first time they had seen the house. The day they knew this was where they would live. John remembered the feeling - of pure overwhelming freedom, like standing at the end of the longest pier in the world with nothing in front but calm blue sea.

  He was back in the dimly lit hall. He watched Sophie as she wandered around the hallway. She drifted over to one of the stained glass windows. It was at least eight feet tall. The image was biblical but not a scene John knew. He glanced at the other panes. They were all a similar style, telling different parts of the same story. He had not yet found the time to research them. He made a mental note to ask Mrs Simpson when he next saw her.

  Mrs Simpson. He smiled. I wonder when she will wander around to see us, he thought wryly. I suspect the old dear will be a regular visitor for a bit. Until she realises once and for all she doesn't live here any more.

  Thinking of the old lady saddened him. Over fifty years in this house, more than a lifetime for some people. Now living in a small bungalow within a stone's throw, too frail to maintain the house any longer. All those years now gone forever, left with nothing but her memories. He made a mental note to invite her back to the house soon, once they were all settled in. Let her see the changes they had already made so she would realise they were protecting the history and fabric of the place.

  Emma caught his eye. She was smiling, her face open and elated. Her arms were held away from her sides, palms upturned. She seemed to want to say something but the moment was too much, too powerful. John didn't need to hear any words. He knew what she was thinking. He felt it too. How could he not, seeing his family here? How could he not feel anything but pure from-the-bottom-of-his-boots happiness?

  'Where next, Dad? Can we go in all the rooms?'

  John looked at Sophie. She had grown taller recently; would soon be thirteen, with all the agonies of teenage years upon her. Enjoy this moment, a voice in his head whispered. Hold it close because it is over too quickly.

  'You can go anywhere you like, Sophie. This is your home now. Go and look upstairs. See if you can remember which bedroom is yours.'

  Sophie laughed with excitement and started up the sweeping staircase, two steps at a time. Suddenly, John and Emma were alone. They seemed unaware of each other for a few moments, lost in their own thoughts. Emma moved towards him. She looked up at the high ceiling, the oak handrail running up to the gallery, the dust particles drifting in slow clouds in the evening light. John reached out a hand and she took it without looking at him.

  They followed Sophie up the stairs. Emma did not seem to have noticed the subtle change in temperature, the softest of breezes that blew across the hall; John had and he turned around, one foot in mid-air as he paused to look. Emma was already two stairs ahead of him. John scanned the hallway, wondering what had caused the breeze. He saw a fleeting bird-like shadow that drifted down the front door. He watched, fascinated, as the shadow scudded across the hall floor and up the wall before it disappeared into the high ornate ceiling, as if it had never existed.

  'Come on, John,' Emma called from the top of the stairs. 'I want to see Sophie's face when she goes in her room.'

  John did not reply. He continued to stare at the door, the floor and the wall. The shadow was gone. He turned and made his way slowly up the stairs, wondering if he had seen anything at all.

  TWO

  Five months earlier...

  The rain was incessant. Cold slabs of water poured out of a leaden sky by day, then freezing fog and ice by night. The long cold snap was gone but the winter still showed no signs of fading. John pushed open the door and stumbled forwards into the porch. He shook off his coat and hung it up. Gloves came off next. Then he struggled with his shoe laces. The car heater had decided to give up after a couple of miles and he was frozen to the bone.

  He went into the hallway, listening for them. Sure enough, he could hear Emma and Sophie upstairs laughing and singing.

  'Hello,' he called out. 'I'm home.'

  He passed on down the hall into the kitchen. A delicious aroma of curried chicken filled the room. He took the lid off the pot and sniffed deeply. His stomach juices squeezed out and he enjoyed the subtle cramp of hunger that followed. Curry and a few beers. TFI Friday.

  John just had time to open two bottles before Sophie barrelled into the kitchen and threw herself at him.

  'Hi, Dad.'

  'Hello, darling,' he said, trying to avoid spilling beer down her back. 'Good day at school?'

  'All right.'

  'Any problems?'

  'No,' she said, quieter than before. 'Stop worrying. I'm fine.'

  'I'm your Dad. It's in the contract that I worry, so tough. What's Mum doing?'

  'Sorting out stuff for the holiday. I'm so excited.'

  'So am I. It'll be great to get back on the slopes, eh? Can't believe it's been four years. Do you think you'll remember what to do?'

  Sophie snorted and punched him on the thigh.

  'I'm not a kid any more, Dad. I'll beat you down every time. I'm going to snowboard this time as well.'

  'Oh, are you?' John asked in mock anger. 'Says who?'

  They were still messing around when Emma joined them in the kitchen. John handed her a beer.

  'Cheers. Happy Friday.'

  'Happy Friday. Good day?'

  John shrugged. 'It's over. That's the main thing. Now, are we ready to go, or are we ready to go?'

  Emma laughed and rolled her eyes at Sophie. Their flight was still two days away. Two days of relaxing at home. No phone calls from the office. No last-minute site meetings that necessitated overnight trips to the other end of the country. Then a whole week away in Italy, skiing. John closed his eyes and breathed out gently. His first holiday in eighteen months.

  'Shall we eat? I'm starving.'

  He opened his eyes and looked at Emma. 'Yeah.'

  Sophie walked to the kitchen table, just out of earshot. Emma put an arm around John's waist and kissed him gently.

  'You look knackered.'

  'I'm not surprised. I just about got out the office before the next tidal wave landed in my in-box. But you know what? It can all sit there and rot for the next ten days. Fuck 'em.'

  'Will they be after you this weekend?'

  John shrugged. 'Probably. Let them try. I'm sure they can find another overworked embittered architect to solve their problems. There's plenty in the office who look worse than me, if it's any consolation.'

  'At least it's work, John.'

  'I know. That's what makes it worse. The fact that it's just work. It's nothing else any more.' He took a swig of his beer, half the bottle in one go. 'I wouldn't care if I never went back there again, to be honest.' The rest of the beer followed the first swig. He walked to the fridge to get himself another.