Black Rock

  1 - Black Rock

  The ho­use wasn’t ha­un­ted.

  It might ha­ve lo­oked as if it had be­en de­sig­ned and bu­ilt so­lely for the pur­po­se of ho­using ghosts, and it cer­ta­inly se­emed to ha­ve be­en plan­ted in a lands­ca­pe craf­ted to he­igh­ten its vi­su­al­ly dis­con­cer­ting ef­fect, but it co­uldn’t be ha­un­ted.

  And sit­ting in her red Ford Si­er­ra es­ta­te on the shing­le fo­re­co­urt of the ho­use, Snowd­rop Dres­den - known to her fri­ends as Snowy or, de­pen­ding on how re­cently she’d bro­ken so­met­hing, Dropsy - be­gan to list the re­asons why.

  The first of the­se - The­re are no such things as ghosts -wo­uld nor­mal­ly ha­ve be­en eno­ugh. Snowy was not one of tho­se pe­op­le who lie in bed at night in­terp­re­ting the no­ises of the ho­use set­tling as spo­oks or cre­atu­res that go bump in the night. From the mo­ment her bo­ok hit the flo­or and her he­ad hit the pil­low, Snowd­rop J. Dres­den slept the sle­ep of the de­ad. The exp­res­si­on fast as­le­ep when ap­pli­ed to her was a gross un­ders­ta­te­ment. Her ex-boyf­ri­end Mar­tin had co­ined the far mo­re ac­cu­ra­te term, full spe­ed as­le­ep. Con­se­qu­ently, Snowy didn’t of­ten think abo­ut ghosts.

  But sit­ting he­re lo­oking at the big dark ho­use - alt­ho­ugh the word man­si­on se­emed mo­re ap­prop­ri­ate - the simp­le de­ni­al of the exis­ten­ce of ghosts didn’t se­em eno­ugh. This ho­use - Black Rock ac­cor­ding to the crumb­ling sign at the ga­te - se­emed to ar­gue back.

  So Snowy ma­de a ra­ti­onal, and so­mew­hat cyni­cal, list of ext­ras. The pla­ce lo­oked as if it had be­en in­ven­ted by the world’s most unins­pi­red hor­ror wri­ter: Ta­ke one Vic­to­ri­an ho­use, do­ub­le its si­ze, find a spo­oky lo­ca­ti­on on the co­ast of North Corn­wall - any outc­rop of rock prot­ru­ding in­to the At­lan­tic will do - pla­ce ho­use on rock with the wild sea be­hind it and ma­ke it lo­ok as if it’s squ­at­ting the­re, re­ady to po­un­ce. Put a dark, ro­iling sky abo­ve the sea. Two hund­red yards to the left you can see the ru­ins of King Art­hur’s Tin­ta­gel Cast­le; for mi­les to the right the ba­re cliff winds away. The ne­arest bu­il­ding, a small farm­ho­use, is three hund­red yards back up the hill to­wards Tin­ta­gel. A nar­row path le­ads to­wards the ru­ined cast­le, which it­self is a go­od qu­ar­ter of a mi­le from the vil­la­ge.

  That was anot­her go­od re­ason the ho­use co­uldn’t be ha­un­ted. Re­al ha­un­ted ho­uses wo­uld lo­ok just li­ke any ot­her or­di­nary ho­use. May­be a six­ti­es se­mi, or one of tho­se pre­fabs they ma­de af­ter the war. If ghosts we­re the spi­rits of de­ad pe­op­le, they wo­uldn’t be con­fi­ned to big fo­re­bo­ding ho­uses, wo­uld they? Pe­op­le di­ed all over the pla­ce so how co­me only ho­uses li­ke this se­emed to fe­atu­re ghosts?

  ‘And the­re isn’t a spo­oky at­mosp­he­re, eit­her,’ Snowy ad­ded, nod­ding.

  This might chan­ge when she got out of the car, she re­ali­zed, and, figh­ting off a ting­ling in her spi­ne which thre­ate­ned to be­co­me a fully fled­ged shi­ver, she pus­hed open the do­or.

  The­re was no spo­oky at­mosp­he­re.

  It might ha­ve be­en la­te Oc­to­ber and the clo­uds might ha­ve be­en bu­il­ding up out at sea and thre­ate­ning lo­usy we­at­her, but the bre­eze was warm and wel­co­ming, the air was fresh and cle­an and, now she was out of the car, the ho­use lo­oked a gre­at de­al fri­end­li­er. It lo­oked so­mew­he­re you co­uld be snug and se­cu­re no mat­ter what the we­at­her. It lo­oked li­ke a pla­ce whe­re you co­uld ma­ke lo­ve on a fur rug in front of an open fi­re whi­le a bliz­zard whir­led out­si­de and glo­wing co­als from the fi­re wo­uldn’t even da­re to pop and sho­wer yo­ur na­ked bot­tom with sparks.

  Smi­ling to her­self at this un­bid­den sappy ima­ge, Snowy re­ac­hed back in­to the car for her bri­ef­ca­se. She was not re­now­ned for her in­na­te spe­ci­al awa­re­ness or sen­se of di­rec­ti­on. She was half an inch short. Her fin­ger­tips brus­hed the hand­le, but didn’t qu­ite grasp it. Her hand ca­me away from the ca­se with the na­ils of her mid­dle and ring fin­gers bro­ken.

  The two lit­tle cur­ves of trans­lu­cent na­il lo­oked li­ke sick­les with rag­ged cut­ting ed­ges. Snowy lo­oked at them and swo­re. My best ones yet, she in­wardly comp­la­ined, ta­king one of the na­ils bet­we­en her te­eth and te­aring it off.

  She glan­ced at the ho­use. No one was watc­hing her and the ho­use it­self didn’t fe­el as if it was watc­hing her eit­her, so that was anot­her one in the eye for the ha­un­ted ho­use thing.

  She to­re off the ot­her bro­ken na­il, ret­ri­eved the ca­se, slam­med the car do­or and re­ali­zed she hadn’t ta­ken the key from the ig­ni­ti­on.

  So­me days. Dropsy, she told her­self, sud­denly ir­ri­ta­ted, you’re li­ke an old-fas­hi­oned Va­ude­vil­le act lo­oking for so­mew­he­re to per­form.

  And her ir­ri­ta­ti­on grew be­ca­use her own mind had just se­en fit to use one of Mar­tin’s fa­vo­uri­te dis­pa­ra­ging re­marks abo­ut her. Now she fo­und her­self pic­tu­ring his fa­ce and her ir­ri­ta­ti­on grew to an­ger. Mar­tin had be­en ba­nis­hed from her mind for over two months now. She did not think abo­ut him any mo­re. It was all over and go­od rid­dan­ce to bad rub­bish.

  His fa­ce hung the­re in her mind’s eye, tho­ugh, his fe­atu­res not a bit blur­red by the pas­sing we­eks. The first few ti­mes he’d go­ne on bu­si­ness trips to the Sta­tes, she’d had tro­ub­le han­ging on to the me­mory of how he lo­oked. His ima­ge wo­uld gra­du­al­ly di­mi­nish un­til all she re­ta­ined was a pink oval fa­ce with thin­ning sandy ha­ir and a gin­gery mo­us­tac­he. Back then, she’d lo­ved him mo­re than anyt­hing el­se in the world and had de­arly wan­ted to hold on to that fa­ding vi­ew; now, when she wan­ted to for­get, he re­ma­ined mo­re sharply de­fi­ned than ever, that in­fu­ri­ating ‘told you so’ exp­res­si­on of ma­le su­pe­ri­ority fi­xed to his fa­ce.

  Well, Mar­tin co­uld ‘go fuc­king whist­le’, as he’d be­en so fond of sa­ying of ot­her pe­op­le. Snowy now told him so, alo­ud. She al­so told him that she might be a lit­tle scat­ter bra­ined and clumsy oc­ca­si­onal­ly, and she might ha­ve tro­ub­le tel­ling her left hand from her right, or north from west but she was in­tel­li­gent, com­pas­si­ona­te, lo­ving, ca­ring, ge­ne­ro­us, a dis­tin­gu­is­hed sel­ler of per­so­nal com­pu­ters, a dam­ned go­od-lo­oking wo­man, an ani­mal in the bed­ro­om (no thanks to ‘Call me Mr Mis­si­onary’) and per­fectly ab­le to exist in a world whe­re the­re was no such thing as a fre­elan­ce sci­en­ce fic­ti­on edi­tor, bi­got and ma­le cha­uvi­nist ex­t­ra­or­di­na­ire cal­led Mar­tin Din­sey.

  Snowy glan­ced at the ho­use aga­in, tur­ned away and told Mar­tin’s ima­ge (now lo­oking dis­tinctly pa­le and shoc­ked, the way he had the day she’d sto­od be­fo­re him ar­med with that mot­her of all we­apons, a wo­oden rol­ling-pin) that she wo­uldn’t pee on him if he was on fi­re and that he co­uld ta­ke. his Fer­ra­ri Di­no (which she’d ne­ver be­en al­lo­wed to dri­ve be­ca­use, 1, she was a wo­man, and, 2, it was his car and he’d pa­id for it and wasn’t go­ing to sha­re it) and get out of her li­fe be­fo­re she did him so­me se­ri­o­us da­ma­ge.

  I co­uld ha­ve kil­led you, Mar­tin, Snow­d­rop cal­led af­ter her ex-lo­ver’s fa­ding ima­ge. Co­uld ha­ve and wo­uld ha­ve. Now go away and stay away. It’s all over!

  She stra­igh­te­ned her skirt and dus­ted off her jac­ket, re­ar­ran­ging her fa­ce in­to its pro­per pro­fes­si­onal exp­res­si­on of po­li�
�te con­fi­den­ce. In­si­de this big, old ha­un­ted ho­use was a so­me­one cal­led Mr Win­ter, who wasn’t go­ing to be a gho­ul at all, but a per­fectly ni­ce (and pos­sibly rich) man who wan­ted to buy a per­so­nal com­pu­ter system. A very ex­pen­si­ve one. And he wo­uld buy from her be­ca­use she was inc­re­dibly go­od at her job and was go­ing to of­fer him exactly the system he re­qu­ired. Then she co­uld go ho­me happy and spend the eve­ning ple­asing her­self.

  Snowd­rop Dres­den wal­ked up the shing­le fo­re­co­urt to­wards Black Rock smi­ling, be­ca­use fe­eling go­od abo­ut her­self ca­me much mo­re easily sin­ce Mar­tin’s pas­sing than it had ever do­ne be­fo­re. Snowy tho­ught she was go­ing to li­ke it in­si­de the ho­use. It felt a lit­tle as tho­ugh she was go­ing ho­me.

  She sto­od in front of the big oak front do­or lo­oking for the bell whi­le she tre­ated her­self to a qu­ick fan­tasy in which her des­tiny had bro­ught her he­re. Snowy had do­ne a lot of fan­ta­si­zing over the past ye­ar whi­le her re­la­ti­ons­hip with Mar­tin had de­ca­yed. They had be­gun as fan­ta­si­es which co­uld ha­ve be­en en­tit­led, How it’s go­ing to be when I’ve sor­ted out my li­fe, and tur­ned in­to epics con­cer­ning Mar­tin and vi­olent de­ath. Li­ke an unu­sed musc­le in ne­ed of exer­ci­se, her mind had be­en lo­ath to ac­com­mo­da­te this mo­de of thin­king at first, and then had gra­du­al­ly be­co­me to­ned. The­se days it had qu­ic­ke­ned to the po­int at which it co­uld pro­vi­de her with a story and backg­ro­und whe­ne­ver she fan­ci­ed; on the ro­ad, in the of­fi­ce, or alo­ne in her bed and fe­eling randy. So­me­ti­mes the­se we­re short vig­net­tes, and so­me­ti­mes they ca­me to her so ro­un­ded and rich in de­ta­il she tho­ught she might be ab­le to wri­te them up in­to a no­vel one day.

  The one that ca­me to her now pa­in­ted Mr Win­ter as a tall, go­od-lo­oking man in his mid or la­te thir­ti­es, as­ser­ti­ve and craggy fa­ced. He wo­uld be warm and wel­co­ming, li­ke his ho­use. His eyes wo­uld be ice-blue, his smi­le mel­ting. He wo­uld ta­ke her to a lar­ge, whi­te ro­om with a hu­ge oak desk and pi­les of elect­ro­nic equ­ip­ment and Snowy wo­uld ima­gi­ne him pus­hing her gently down on to that desk and blush. He wo­uld exp­la­in that he was a fre­elan­ce com­pu­ter soft­wa­re de­sig­ner or playw­right or scre­en wri­ter and show her his cre­dits. He wo­uld la­ugh a lot and se­em shy and hust­le her down to the lo­un­ge whe­re that log fi­re wo­uld be bur­ning and that in­vi­ting fur rug wo­uld lie be­fo­re the he­arth. He wo­uld ma­ke her tea with pu­re As­sam le­aves and they wo­uld sip whi­le she sold him a top-of-the-ran­ge Pen­ti­um system. As she clo­sed the de­al, he wo­uld ask her if he co­uld ta­ke her to a res­ta­urant so­me ti­me when she wasn’t too busy…

  The part of Snowy’s mind which wasn’t bu­sily tur­ning an or­di­nary wor­king day in­to a per­fect fu­tu­re, and Mr Win­ter in­to Mr Right, in­for­med her that a sharp fi­re­man’s hatc­het wo­uld ma­ke ba­rely a dent in Black Rock’s so­lid front do­or. Rap­ping on it with her knuck­les ma­de no dis­cer­nib­le so­und at all. The­re was a hu­ge brass knob in its cent­re and one of tho­se lit­tle spy-ho­le things set in the wo­od at he­ad he­ight, but the­re was no let­ter box, no bell and no knoc­ker.

  And no key­ho­le or lock, eit­her, Snowy ad­ded, frow­ning to her­self.

  This last ob­ser­va­ti­on un­set­tled her a lit­tle. The fact that the­re was no ap­pa­rent met­hod of ope­ning the do­or from the out­si­de was odd, to say the le­ast.

  May­be the brass knob opens it so­me­how, Snowy told her­self, ben­ding for­ward to ins­pect it. A li­on li­ke ani­mal with a gar­goy­le fa­ce was em­bos­sed on it. The cre­atu­re was truly ugly. The part of Snowy that al­ways no­ti­ced cob­webs and dust in ot­her pe­op­le’s ho­uses re­ali­zed that the knob was un­be­li­evably cle­an. The­re we­re many cor­ners and ang­les in that rep­re­sen­ta­ti­on of a de­mon, and in the re­al world, in ho­uses that we­ren’t ha­un­ted, the­se wo­uld be the pla­ces that didn’t get cle­an when you po­lis­hed.

  So it’s new, she told her­self.

  But she didn’t think it was new and she didn’t even think it was brass any mo­re - for one thing, its co­lo­ur was too de­ep.

  The knob ap­pe­ared to be so­lid gold.

  Bul­lshit! Snowy told the wi­de-eyed lit­tle girl in­si­de her, who was thre­ate­ning to le­ap out and ta­ke over. Get on yo­ur bi­ke and ri­de!

  Fin­ger­p­rints! The awed lit­tle girl cri­ed in a mix­tu­re of as­to­nish­ment and de­light, and for a few mo­ments Snowy did not un­ders­tand what she me­ant.

  If Snowd­rop J. Dres­den had not be­en the kind of wo­man who re­fu­sed to be­li­eve in ghosts or ha­un­ted ho­uses, at this po­int she co­uld well ha­ve de­ci­ded that per­haps disc­re­ti­on was the bet­ter part of va­lo­ur af­ter all, and left Black Rock… be­ca­use for the past twenty se­conds or so she had be­en hand­ling the de­mon do­or knob and the­re wasn’t a sing­le fin­gerp­rint upon it.

  Snowy re­ac­hed for it aga­in, watc­hing clo­sely this ti­me. The mo­ment be­fo­re she ma­de con­tact with it, the warmth of her ap­pro­ac­hing fin­gers mis­ted the co­ol me­tal. She la­id her hand on it. The mis­ted area spre­ad aro­und the ed­ge of her hand, then va­nis­hed. She to­ok her hand away qu­ickly. The do­or knob was to­tal­ly un­mar­ked.

  Snowy sud­denly re­ali­zed she’d be­en stan­ding he­re for qu­ite so­me ti­me. She rap­ped on the do­or aga­in and whi­le she was wa­iting, to­ok her Ult­rag­low com­pact from her hand­bag and ope­ned it. She chec­ked her fa­ce in the mir­ror, told her­self - as she al­ways did - Ye­ah, that’s the sa­me fa­ce you had when you left ho­me this mor­ning and my God, it’s still be­a­uti­ful, then pla­ced a thumb firmly in the cent­re of the mir­ror, rol­ling it and pe­eling it away ca­re­ful­ly, the way the cop did it af­ter she’d be­en bus­ted for the one and only jo­int she’d ever smo­ked in her li­fe.

  Vi-o-la, mad-man, she tho­ught, ein fin­ger­p­rin­ten!

  The print, ma­de with the sa­me thumb that wasn’t gre­asy eno­ugh to mark the do­or knob, was per­fect. Li­ke the ones she’d gi­ven the po­li­ce in Exe­ter all tho­se ye­ars ago, this one wasn’t an oval dab, but al­most rec­tan­gu­lar whe­re she’d rol­led it. The whorls, ho­oks and twists of her print we­re cle­arly vi­sib­le.

  She ap­pli­ed the sa­me thumb to the do­or knob.

  The knob mis­ted as her thumb ap­pro­ac­hed. She rol­led it and re­mo­ved it. The­re was no mark what­so­ever.

  Used up all yo­ur fin­ger-gre­ase?

  Snowy tri­ed the mir­ror aga­in.

  No­pe, still plenty of that left.

  She tri­ed the do­or knob aga­in.

  Then she sho­ok her he­ad. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a mystery,’ she sa­id alo­ud.

  But it wasn’t ne­ces­sa­rily a mystery of the ge­nus Su­per­na­tur-alis, or even Ber­mu­dus Tri­an­ga­lis, it co­uld be one of that ar­ca­ne art Elec­t­ro­nic En­gi­ne­ering. Lur­king in Snowy’s past, along with the drugs bust and se­ve­ral ot­her things she wo­uld rat­her not re­mem­ber, was her crow­ning ac­hi­eve­ment, a deg­ree in elect­ro­nics. Be­ca­use of this, she fa­vo­ured the lat­ter exp­la­na­ti­on of the do­or knob’s re­fu­sal to ac­cept her fin­ger -prints. It was ob­vi­o­usly so­me pres­su­re-sen­si­ti­ve giz­mo used to open the do­or and pro­bably co­ated with so­me gre­ase-re­sis­tant stuff. The fact that she’d ne­ver yet he­ard of such a thing didn’t ne­ces­sa­rily prec­lu­de its exis­ten­ce. Elect­ro­nics, alt­ho­ugh dif­fi­cult to wrap yo­ur mind aro­und when you star­ted trying to un­ders­tand stran­ge things li­ke Joseph­son Junc­ti­ons and the Do­ub­le Slit ex­pe­ri­ment, was a prac­ti­cal sci­en­ce: the odd ac­ti­ons of mi­nu­te par­tic­les might not be easy to un­ders­t
and, but so­me­one who did co­uld har­ness an ef­fect and do so­met­hing use­ful with it (li­ke ma­king the com­pu­ters she sold, for examp­le).

  Snowy rap­ped out a few Mor­se co­de mes­sa­ges on the hard do­or: Let me in, Hel­lo, it’s me, and Open Se­sa­me but no­ne had any ef­fect.

  Except that when she lo­oked aga­in, so­met­hing had hap­pe­ned. To the we­re-li­on em­bos­sed in­to the knob. She was (almost) cer­ta­in it had be­en open, the last ti­me she lo­oked; now it was clo­sed and the cre­atu­re’s gar­goy­le he­ad wo­re a self-sa­tis­fi­ed smirk.

  Snowy lo­oked at it for a se­cond, fe­eling a va­ri­ant on the old de­ja-vu sen­sa­ti­on - which she knew was ca­used by an oc­ca­si­onal glitch in the op­ti­cal pat­tern-re­cog­ni­ti­on part of yo­ur bra­in. This fe­eling wasn’t so much, I ha­ve li­ved thro­ugh this be­fo­re, but rat­her as if the world abo­ut her had subtly al­te­red - as if to ac­com­mo­da­te her wit­hin an al­ter­na­te his­tory it had pre­pa­red ear­li­er.

  The­re was a sharp me­tal­lic click! from be­hind her and Snowy spun aro­und, sud­denly cer­ta­in that Mr Win­ter was out on the fo­re­co­urt, watc­hing her.

  No one was the­re.

  Way up on the hill whe­re the ne­arest farm bu­il­ding sto­od, a black dog le­apt up on to a tra­iler and fro­ze, fa­cing in her ge­ne­ral di­rec­ti­on. It was so far away Snowy co­uld not ma­ke out the bre­ed but she got the dis­tinct fe­eling that it was so­me kind of a po­in­ter and that it was po­in­ting at her.

  She lo­oked back at the long, ste­ep track she had dri­ven down to get he­re, then at the black clo­uds which we­re swe­eping in off the sea and won­de­red how you wo­uld get back up that track in a ve­hic­le if it ra­ined. The track - which was ba­rely mo­re than a wi­de­ned fo­ot­path - was un­ma­de and had be­en pretty muddy on the way down. If it ra­ined hard, she was go­ing to spend a go­od long ti­me sit­ting in the car and lis­te­ning to the whe­els spin whi­le she fo­ught to ke­ep the car from sli­ding off the ed­ge of the track and fal­ling down to the rocky gro­und be­low.