Leave This Place (8 page)

“Right. Hourly rousing, it’s called. But Pete Stone had only been in the job six months, and he was like all of us when we start out. Keen to show how bloody capable he was. A big, buff guy. And there was George Olsen, the wrinkly little shit. Who knows what went down, maybe Olsen pretended to be dead or something, but Pete ignored his training and just went in there. He unlocked that madman’s cell and went in there on his own.”
 

Brian sighed. Puffed out his cheeks. “I was at the front desk when the panic alarm went off, but by the time I made it down there it was too late.”

Silas looked around at his colleagues. They were watching Brian with wide-eyed anticipation.

“I heard his screams as soon as I entered the cell block, and I’ll never forget them. But everything was silent by the time I got to solitary. The cell door was swinging open, so I peered round…

“Pete was on the floor in a… in a puddle. A chunk of him missing, a look of frozen panic on his face. And Olsen was in the corner, blood around his mouth. The bastard was licking his fingers as if he had just finished a good meal.”

Wendy winced. Kelvin turned an unhealthy shade of green.

Brian righted himself in the chair, placed his cricket ball on the corner of the desk and turned to them. “So if you’re asking me about the alarm, I’d say it’s Pete, calling for assistance. Wanting us all to come running before it’s too late.”

“Nice,” Oona said as Silas finished relaying Brian’s tale. “What a lovely story.”

They followed the trail up the craggy hillside, cutting through moorland flushed purple with dense clumps of heather. The air was sweet with its scent.

“Roland wanted to draw straws again, but I didn’t hang around for that. I was out the door like a shot, and inside the cell block within a couple of minutes. I had to really listen, but the screams were there, beneath the squeal of the alarm. I let it ring - anything to mask the sound of those screams - and marched down the cell corridor, headed straight for solitary. I tell you, I’ve never been so scared in my life.

“I put my hand to the hatch and I had to really psych myself up to open it. And when I did - well, at first I didn’t see anything. An empty bunk. But there was this awful smell, like rotting flesh.

“Then I peered round, and he was sitting in the corner. Olsen, that is. This shriveled little man, just like Brian said. As real as you are to me now. And he was sucking on a chunk of meat.

“I fumbled for my keys and all I could think as I was unlocking the cell was that this was the same mistake Pete had made, he’d gone charging in, too. But I had to do something. I opened the door, baton raised, and Olsen looked up at me, and he broke into this godawful grin, and… and…”

“And what?”

Silas swallowed. Almost couldn’t get the words out. “And his face just… it was like all his features rolled back and the shriveled skin unfolded itself and what was left…”

Oona waited, wide-eyed.
 

“It was so hideous that I wish I could un-see it.” Tears sprung to his eyes and he wiped them away. “But I can’t.”

They crested the hill and were greeted with a magnificent view of the village in the valley below. A cluster of farms stood high on the moor, their fields dotted with grazing sheep.

Silas had told her everything, now, and he was exhausted. But after last night’s debacle he’d had no choice.

“I know how it sounds,” he said. “And I wouldn’t believe it, either. But I know what I saw.”

Oona turned to him. “I believe you, Silas. I really do.” She hesitated, then continued. “But I was with you last night, when you woke up screaming. There was nothing there. There was no old man in the corner of the room.”

He was stumped for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe I’m just attuned to their wavelength or something.”

“Or maybe there’s another, more rational explanation.”

He laughed. “What? Like I’m nuts?”

Oona shook her head. “Look, the way I see it, you saw these things because your imagination had been primed for it. You saw the old man because you were spooked by his photograph. The same with the ghost in the cell block. You only saw it after Brian told his story.”

“But what about the screams? I heard them first, long before that.”

“They could have been anything, though. You know what it’s like along the High Street at that time of night. Or maybe you’d already heard Brian’s story and just forgot. Maybe you heard others talking about it.”

Silas felt an anger rise within him. That was easy for her to say - she hadn’t experienced it all. He had seen those ghouls with his own eyes. They were not hallucinations or waking dreams or tricks of the light.

But then a fear gripped him. What if he really
was
crazy? If that was true, then he couldn’t even trust his senses. It didn’t matter what he saw, or heard, or how much he believed in himself.

And if he didn’t have Oona’s support going forward… well what then?

As they followed the trail back to the cottage, Silas realized that he was completely lost.

18

O
ona thought Silas looked exhausted when they returned to the cottage, but he ignored her suggestion to go upstairs for a lie down and crashed on the sofa in the living room instead. After the night he’d had, Oona didn’t argue. She stoked the fire, found an old blanket and wrapped it around him.

He complained about the cold, and she hugged him until he fell asleep. She stayed with him a while, wondering where they could go from here. For the first time since they’d been away, Oona realized she missed having a TV; it was a welcome distraction when times were tough.

She left Silas and passed through to the dining room, where she saw the pack of playing cards still on the table. She considered a game of Patience or Solitaire.

Then she remembered something Silas had said and opened the bureau.

She found the photo album among a pile of old back issues of
Reader’s Digest
. It was one of those old-fashioned albums that she remembered her grandparents had when she was a child, with large pages of thick black paper and aged, monochrome photos held in place by mounting corners.

A musty smell emanated from the pages as she flipped through dozens of black-and-white images of miserable children. Then about half way through, a wedding photo. Bride and groom outside a church, staring glumly at the camera. She recognized the man from the shape of his face, and the handwritten caption beneath the picture confirmed it:
The Weddups
.

An ugly child in a Christening gown adorned the next page, then Mr and Mrs Weddup with more children as she leafed through.

Oona stopped when she came across the very photo that had tormented her from the bedroom wall, only this copy was not as bleached. As a result there was slightly more detail: his eyeballs could be seen within the dark sockets now, staring out at her, and it made an already creepy picture even scarier. She turned the page quickly.

Color photos now, although they were all of the same brownish hue that came with a combination of age and cheap cameras. There was Mr Weddup again, in the living room of the cottage. Sitting in the armchair that Silas liked so much, upright and miserable as ever. Only this time there was a cat on his lap, staring at the camera with the same disdainful expression.

Beneath the photo was a caption:
Dad and Maude.

Maude the cat looked awfully familiar. She even had distinctive white markings on her paws that made her look like she was wearing little ankle socks.

It couldn’t be…

Actually, now that Oona thought about it, no, it couldn’t. The photo had to be at least twenty years old. She removed the photo from the album and flipped it over.
 

The date scribbled on the back confirmed that the photo was thirty-three years old.

That settled it, then. She put the photo back in the album and studied the cat. It really was uncanny.

At that moment there was a loud crash from upstairs, and Oona jumped. She threw the album into the bureau and ran through to the living room.
 

The sofa was empty, and Silas was nowhere to be seen.

Another noise. A loud crack. She ran into the hall, her heart pounding. Shouted up the stairs.

“Silas? Silas, what the hell?”

19

S
ilas opened one eye and heard Oona rummaging around in the dining room. He knew how she worried for him, and sometimes he thought it best just to fake it and let her think he was having a good rest. He wished it were that easy - most nights it took more than three hours to fall asleep.

He sat up on the sofa and massaged a crick in his neck, staring into the fire. The flames were low and pathetic - he’d have to go out and find firewood soon.

And that’s when it hit him: an ingenious plan. Excited, he leapt to his feet. Oona would never approve, of course, so he snuck out of the room and crept upstairs.

 
He entered the spare bedroom. The old man’s chair was there, looking remarkably at home in its bright and calm surroundings, as if it had always belonged.

Silas found it rather disconcerting. Could this really be the same chair that had haunted his last few nights? He took a moment. Imagined the old guy sitting in it.
Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

Silas roared in fury and launched at the piece of furniture, pressing his knee down on the seat and yanking at the armrests. He pulled until he heard a snap, one of the armrests coming away in his hand.

He used this new tool to lever the seat from the back of the chair. The polished wood bowed and creaked before splintering away with a loud crack amidst a shower of dowels and sawdust.

He flipped the seat to access the legs and pulled them apart with all the force he could muster. One of the legs came away with a satisfying snap.

The floor creaked behind him. He turned and saw Oona standing in the doorway.

He stopped, dropping the debris in his hands, and looked at her sheepishly.

She surveyed the scene with a frown. “Why?”

He took a breath to consider her question. “Closure.”

Oona nodded slowly.

Then she dived in, breaking a chair leg with her foot. At the same time, she pulled on the remaining armrest until it came away from the seat.

The chair was now entirely destroyed. Pieces of wood lay around the rug.

They collapsed on the floor together, out of breath.
 

“Now what?” Oona asked.

Silas smiled.

Oona threw another chair leg onto the fire as Silas jabbed it with the poker. The old man’s chair had provided more firewood than he had anticipated, and burning it all was going to take some time. But he didn’t mind. He was happy to sit there all evening watching the pieces toast. It was better than any TV show.

They moved the couch closer to the hearth and cuddled up together in front of the flames. Silas delighted in imagining the old man’s ghost, unable to separate itself from the remains of his chair, burning in the fireplace. His elongated face stretching impossibly over the flames as he screamed in spectral agony. Silas felt warm and fuzzy, and it was only partly due to the heat from the fire.

“You realize,” Oona said, as a fresh chunk of chair popped and crackled in the grate, “that Aggie’s going to bill us for the damage.”

“You think it was worth anything?”

“Oh, knowing our luck it was probably an antique. A priceless period piece or something.”

Silas snuggled into her, rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. He listened to the crackle as the chair was consumed by the flames.

“You know what?” he sighed, sleep already within grasp. “Best money I ever spent.”

20

O
ona slept so well that for the first moments of consciousness she thought she was back home. She had achieved the impossible and found a comfortable spot on the hideous bed.

But then she realized where she was, and a pang of anxiety reverberated through her insides, but it soon dissipated and she settled again.

It had been such a good night that she felt almost refreshed. And from the sound of Silas’s breathing, he had managed to have a good night, too.

Maybe,
Oona thought,
we should have burned the chair earlier.

Silas grunted and rolled over, pressing against her back. His cold skin startled her. She felt his breath on the back of her neck, and smelled its stale odor. His breathing was labored now, and she worried that perhaps he was having a bad dream.

She lay there for a while longer, relishing this world of no alarms and no urgency. Of being able to revel in a bed’s comfort of a morning. She knew that if she even slightly moved the bedsprings would jab her, so she stayed perfectly still.

Silas sounded even worse now, his breath hitching regularly in his throat. Oona poked her bottom out, pressing it into him the way he liked when they spooned.

And then she heard a voice. Coming from downstairs.

“Oona! Breakfast’s ready!”

Her eyes snapped open.

Her world spun. It couldn’t be, surely?

As if to confirm, he called again. “Come on, Oons.”

It was Silas.

Silas.

Silas was downstairs.

A bolt of undiluted terror ripped through her, tightening every muscle, clamping every joint.

She held her breath, consumed with fear.

Her bottom was pressed into someone. She felt that same person’s hot breath on her neck. Her heart burst free from its case of ice and began pumping hard.
 

She wanted to turn and look, but she daren’t move a muscle. Besides, the terror would likely kill her.

At that moment, a set of fingers wrapped themselves around her upper arm. They drummed a peculiar rhythm on her skin:
 

Tap-tappety, tap-tappety, tap.

Oona had to do something. She steeled herself.

5—

Slowly, ever so slowly, she moved her feet toward the edge of the bed.

4—

She gently pulled the covers away, just enough that they no longer weighed her down.