Black Rock Read online

  You’re pro­bably just trying to exor­ci­ze El­len from yo­ur system, she told her­self sle­epily. You aren’t les­bi­an and you we­ren’t then and yo­ur sub­cons­ci­o­us fe­els gu­ilty abo­ut what hap­pe­ned with her. Or so­met­hing.

  Then the­re we­re the dre­ams abo­ut ghosts. She had ma­de lo­ve with ghosts, both ma­le and fe­ma­le - and so­me­ti­mes both at on­ce - and she had lo­ved the­ir co­ol and silky to­uch, the chill of the­ir bo­di­es en­ve­lo­ping her, se­eping in­to her.

  It was li­ke be­ing on ho­li­day, in a way, she sup­po­sed. When you went on ho­li­day and got away from it all and be­gan to re­lax, all the nasty stuff that had be­en bu­il­ding up in­si­de yo­ur he­ad ca­me out in dre­ams and was then fi­led ne­atly away in the right sto­ra­ge com­part­ments.

  And sin­ce she’d fi­nal­ly mo­ved in with Phi­lip, it had be­en just li­ke be­ing on ho­li­day in ot­her ways, too. For the first ti­me sin­ce she’d left col­le­ge and fo­und emp­loy­ment the­re was no da­ily grind to lo­ok for­ward to, just an end­less suc­ces­si­on of days in which all she had to do was ple­ase her­self.

  He wro­te and pla­yed, and she pla­yed and slept. And the­re se­emed to be a lot of sle­eping to be ca­ught up on.

  And now, lying in a big brass bed which had to be stra­ight out of a fa­iry ta­le be­ca­use it was war­mer and co­si­er than any bed she’d ever slept in pre­vi­o­usly, she de­ci­ded to catch up on a lit­tle mo­re of that va­lu­ab­le com­mo­dity of which she pre­vi­o­usly se­emed to ha­ve be­en so dep­ri­ved.

  Snowy Dres­den cur­led up and went back to sle­ep to cha­se all her fe­ars away.

  Everyt­hing was just abo­ut as fi­ne as fi­ne co­uld be.

  Until one day, ba­rely a we­ek la­ter, she wo­ke up la­te in the mor­ning, still alo­ne in the bed.

  This was not usu­al. Phi­lip’s work ses­si­ons al­ways star­ted at mid­night and las­ted un­til three or fo­ur in the mor­ning when he wo­uld climb in be­si­de her, kiss her gently, sigh and fall as­le­ep li­ke a con­ten­ted cat. Snowy se­emed to ha­ve be­co­me at­tu­ned to his pre­sen­ce be­ca­use now, each night when he ca­me to bed, she ro­se clo­se eno­ugh to the sur­fa­ce of sle­ep to be­co­me awa­re of him.

  But ap­pa­rently the con­ver­se did not apply: his fa­ilu­re to co­me to bed at the pro­per ti­me hadn’t dis­tur­bed her at all.

  Snowy was not a mor­ning per­son - one of that bright and che­er­ful bre­ed who snap awa­ke at six or se­ven each day al­re­ady on full po­wer and re­ady to rock. To the best of her know­led­ge she had ne­ver wo­ken una­ided and of her own ac­cord be­fo­re ten. And when she did wa­ke up, eit­her be­ca­use of the alarm or be­ca­use she had simply fi­nis­hed be­ing as­le­ep, her mind to­ok al­most anot­her ho­ur to crank it­self up. Con­se­qu­ently her first tho­ughts to­day we­re so­mew­hat muddy.

  It’s twenty past ten, she told her­self. La­te.

  It didn’t fe­el la­te, it felt po­si­ti­vely early. In the half-light of the bed­ro­om she squ­in­ted at her watch, cer­ta­in she’d re­ad it wrongly.

  Phi­lip didn’t co­me to bed last night, she re­gis­te­red. The fe­eling that things we­re not as they ought to be was ste­adily in­filt­ra­ting its way in­to her bra­in and Snowy be­gan to fe­el a cer­ta­in amo­unt of con­cern. She was, ho­we­ver, qu­ite cer­ta­in that Phi­lip was ne­it­her de­ad nor va­nis­hed, as her mind was trying to sug­gest.

  He’s still wor­king, she wil­led her­self to be­li­eve, pus­hing the co­vers back and sit­ting up. He’s on a roll and didn’t want to stop.

  Uncon­vin­ced, her mind pro­ce­eded di­rectly to fan­tasy mo­de wit­ho­ut pas­sing Go or col­lec­ting two hund­red qu­id. And not all Snowy’s fan­ta­si­es we­re ple­asant ones. In this one she fo­und her­self stan­ding out­si­de Phi­lip’s work-ro­om won­de­ring whet­her she sho­uld bre­ak ru­le num­ber one and en­ter. He was not el­sew­he­re in the ho­use be­ca­use she’d chec­ked, so he must be in the­re. But he hadn’t ans­we­red when she’d knoc­ked and she co­uldn’t he­ar him in­si­de. Which me­ant that he’d fal­len as­le­ep at his key­bo­ard or that he was slum­ped in front of it de­ad, or dying, of a stro­ke or he­art at­tack. Whi­le she was out­si­de, he­si­ta­ting be­ca­use of ru­le num­ber one.

  Snowy bro­ke her­self out of the fan­tasy and got out of bed, now far mo­re alert than was go­od for her this short dis­tan­ce away from sle­ep. She was go­ing to pay with a he­adac­he for su­re.

  I shall bre­ak that ru­le and go in­si­de, she told her­self.

  One of Phi­lip’s ex­pen­si­ve cot­ton shirts lay on the flo­or at her fe­et. She snatc­hed it up, fas­te­ned two of the mid­dle but­tons and hur­ri­ed downs­ta­irs.

  Black Rock was bi­sec­ted by the wi­de hall which ran from the front do­or to the back of the ho­use whe­re the back do­or wo­uld ha­ve be­en if Ha­un­ted Ho­use De­signs Inc. had tho­ught such a de­ta­il ne­ces­sary. The lo­un­ge, which was prac­ti­cal­ly lar­ge eno­ugh for a hoc­key match, to­ok up the who­le left-hand si­de of the ho­use and had two ent­ran­ces. Snowy cho­se the ne­arest do­or, and hur­ri­ed thro­ugh chec­king everyw­he­re. It didn’t ta­ke very long. She then tri­ed the kitc­hen. He wasn’t the­re eit­her. Or in the overg­rown back gar­den vi­sib­le thro­ugh the win­dows. She went back in­to the hall, pas­sed the for­bid­den loc­ked do­or to the cel­lar and hur­ri­ed to­wards the lib­rary, cur­sing the lack of do­ors that me­ant she co­uldn’t get from A to B wit­ho­ut wal­king what se­emed li­ke a mi­le.

  For examp­le, the lib­rary but­ted up aga­inst the di­ning ro­om, but the­re was no ac­cess from one to the ot­her. To get the­re, she had to walk what se­emed li­ke half-way aro­und the world.

  The si­de hall, which ser­ved only the lib­rary, en­ded in a blank wall, which wo­uld ha­ve be­en the ob­vi­o­us pla­ce to ha­ve had a do­or to the out­si­de. Snowy re­sol­ved that if she sta­yed he­re very long she wo­uld talk Phi­lip in­to ha­ving so­me al­te­ra­ti­ons do­ne - then she tho­ught she’d bet­ter ma­ke su­re that Phi­lip was still ali­ve and well be­fo­re she did any mo­re plan­ning for him.

  One thing that cons­tantly ama­zed her was the way Black Rock con­for­med to the ste­re­oty­pi­cal ha­un­ted ho­use, right down to the fact that the lib­rary ca­me comp­le­te with ca­ses full of le­at­her-bo­und bo­oks, a roll-top desk with a qu­ill pen, or­na­te brass light fit­tings that lo­oked as if they ought to con­ta­in gas mant­les rat­her than elect­ric lamps, and a ge­nu­ine musty odo­ur.

  The­re was no Phi­lip in the­re tho­ugh.

  Which only left the ot­her two ups­ta­irs bed­ro­oms, the bath­ro­om and his work-ro­om. Snowy hur­ri­ed back ups­ta­irs and chec­ked. And in less than a mi­nu­te fo­und her­self ac­ting out her fan­tasy in re­al li­fe, by lin­ge­ring in front of his work­ro­om do­or, unab­le to ma­ke her­self go in.

  So much for bre­aking the ru­les, she scor­ned her­self.

  She put her ear to the do­or and lis­te­ned. In­si­de that ro­om was the fo­ur tho­usand po­unds worth of com­pu­ting equ­ip­ment she had sold to Phi­lip on her first vi­sit - the very sa­me vi­sit du­ring which all her fan­ta­si­es abo­ut Mr Win­ter be­ing Mr Right had co­me true on that she­eps­kin rug in front of the open fi­re.

  And alt­ho­ugh you didn’t pay all that mo­ney for equ­ip­ment which wo­uld be no­isy when it wor­ked, she was cer­ta­in she ought to ha­ve be­en ab­le to he­ar so­met­hing. The­re was not the ti­ni­est no­ise from in­si­de.

  Which do­esn’t me­an a thing, she told her­self. The do­ors in this ho­use are all very he­avy. The ro­om is pro­bably car­pe­ted with so­met­hing that has a pi­le as de­ep as the Ma­ri­anas Trench and, for all you know, co­uld be so­undp­ro­ofed so that out­si­de
no­ises don’t dist­ract him when he’s wor­king.

  Snowy knoc­ked on the do­or. It felt ex­cep­ti­onal­ly so­lid un­der her knuck­les and she sud­denly de­ci­ded that, li­ke the front do­or, this one might res­pond only to the vo­ice of its ow­ner. It might not let her in even if she de­ci­ded to bre­ak ru­le num­ber one.

  Don’t be so silly, she told her­self, but the fact re­ma­ined that the front do­or was not her fri­end. The­re was a trick in­vol­ved - a trick she hadn’t yet wor­ked out and which Phi­lip had re­fu­sed to show her. She had be­en he­re three we­eks and she had not on­ce ope­ned the front do­or una­ided.

  ‘Phi­lip?’ she cal­led, knoc­king aga­in. ‘Phi­lip, ple­ase! phi­lip!’

  Per­haps he just went out, she told her­self. It hadn’t hap­pe­ned be­fo­re, and he hadn’t left a no­te to say whe­re he’d go­ne, but that didn’t me­an it wasn’t pos­sib­le. Snowy sud­denly co­uldn’t re­mem­ber if she’d se­en his car out­si­de or not. Black Rock had no ga­ra­ge, so he just left the car on the fo­re­co­urt. It was a new Porsc­he 911 twin-tur­bo con­ver­tib­le and it was worth a lot of mo­ney, but Phi­lip didn’t worry abo­ut loc­king it. It was sa­fe whi­le it was wit­hin the gro­unds, he sa­id.

  She rus­hed back in­to the mas­ter bed­ro­om, drew back the cur­ta­ins and lo­oked down at the fo­re­co­urt. The Porsc­he was the­re, its rag-top down. And the fe­eling of things be­ing wrong inc­re­ased.

  He wasn’t in the at­tic, that was a cer­ta­inty. The at­tic was anot­her of the ho­use’s myste­ri­es, along with the ve­xing qu­es­ti­on of whe­re the stuff you flus­hed down the loo went to. The ho­use ap­pe­ared to pos­sess no dra­ina­ge system at all. The­re we­re no ins­pec­ti­on co­vers on the pro­perty. The stuff just went down the pi­pe and va­nis­hed - pro­bably stra­ight in­to the sea. The at­tic qu­es­ti­on was just as myste­ri­o­us. The­re had to be a wa­ter tank up the­re so­mew­he­re, sin­ce wa­ter ca­me out of the taps, but the­re was no way up in­to the at­tic to find out for cer­ta­in.

  Snowy rus­hed back ups­ta­irs, trip­ped on the top step, spraw­led ac­ross the lan­ding, cur­sing her­self. Got up, ins­pec­ted her kne­es which now sho­ne red with two lo­vely car­pet burns - as did her right hip - hur­ri­ed to the do­or of Phi­lip’s work-ro­om, twis­ted the hand­le and pus­hed.

  Ope­ning do­ors in­si­de Black Rock was an en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent pro­cess from ope­ning do­ors in a nor­mal ho­use. In a nor­mal ho­use you twis­ted the hand­le, pus­hed and the do­or ope­ned to let you in­to the ro­om. Tho­se in Black Rock wo­uld so­me­ti­mes open qu­ickly and smo­othly, and ot­her ti­mes you had to put all yo­ur we­ight aga­inst them to ma­ke them mo­ve at all.

  And on this oc­ca­si­on, as so­on as the hand­le was tur­ned, the do­or be­gan to open of its own ac­cord. It mo­ved smo­othly and slowly as if so­me­one on the ot­her si­de of it was dra­wing it open. Snowy let go of the hand­le and to­ok a bre­ath, half ex­pec­ting Phi­lip to be the­re.

  And as the do­or ope­ned, she fro­ze.

  For a mo­ment she saw not­hing in­si­de. Not­hing. No light, no sha­de, no co­lo­ur. Just a pa­le not­hing­ness.

  Then, way be­low her, she saw the sea, as if the do­or of the ro­om had ope­ned in­to the air abo­ve the At­lan­tic Oce­an.

  Snowy scre­amed as her ba­lan­ce de­ser­ted her and fran­ti­cal­ly whe­eled her arms trying to re­ma­in up­right and se­arc­hing for so­met­hing so­lid to hang on to.

  The­re was not­hing the­re.

  Scre­aming at the top of her vo­ice, she be­gan to fall.

  11 - Waiting for James

  The re­al, li­ve, wal­king and tal­king (and cur­rently sca­red shit­less) Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den spun the top off the bot­tle of Johnny Wal­ker Black La­bel and tip­ped the bot­tle to­wards the glass. Be­ca­use the glass had myste­ri­o­usly emp­ti­ed it­self aga­in. So far the whisky had ac­hi­eved the old va­nis­hing trick three ti­mes. S’n’J didn’t re­call drin­king it, be­ca­use you ten­ded to lo­se track of what you we­re do­ing when you we­re eng­ros­sed to the po­int of be­ing mes­me­ri­zed by what you we­re re­ading.

  But, she conc­lu­ded, the whisky must ha­ve so­me­how fo­und its way down her thro­at be­ca­use she was be­gin­ning to fe­el warm in­si­de.

  Not se­cu­re. Not sa­fe. And cer­ta­inly not stab­le. But per­haps tho­se things wo­uld fol­low hot on the he­els of the warmth.

  S’n’J ho­ped so be­ca­use she didn’t much li­ke the sen­sa­ti­on of numb dre­ad that was bu­il­ding in her. So­on - if it wasn’t stop­ped - it wo­uld pe­ak, and she didn’t want to be the­re when that hap­pe­ned.

  She held the bot­tle over the glass for a co­unt of fi­ve glugs, then gul­ped down as much of the Black La­bel as she co­uld ma­na­ge in one mo­uth­ful. It bur­ned. Which was so­met­hing re­al, so­met­hing she co­uld un­ders­tand.

  Unli­ke the rest of what se­emed to be hap­pe­ning to her.

  The­re we­re so­me things, S’n’J knew, that you co­uld at­tri­bu­te to ha­ving in­ha­led a gre­at de­al of car­bon mo­no­xi­de. But the­re we­re so­me ot­her things that you co­uld not. One that se­emed to be­long to this lat­ter va­ri­ety - this we­ek’s enth­ral­ling epi­so­de of Black Rock - lay on the cof­fee tab­le next to the Black La­bel bot­tle, now sa­fely back in its en­ve­lo­pe whe­re it co­uld do no furt­her harm.

  And that’s qu­ite a joke, too, S’n’J tho­ught. It do­esn’t ha­ve to do any mo­re harm. It’s al­re­ady do­ne everyt­hing it set out to do.

  Black Rock, by Pe­ter Per­fect, mightn’t ha­ve be­en the best hor­ror story she’d ever re­ad, but it was cer­ta­inly the most ef­fec­ti­ve. If hor­ror sto­ri­es we­re me­ant to throw a sca­re in­to you, this one de­ser­ved a gold me­dal. She wasn’t just sca­red, she was ter­ri­fi­ed.

  No one but S’n’J knew her lo­un­ge do­or had ope­ned on to the At­lan­tic an ho­ur ear­li­er (unless you co­un­ted God and she tho­ught He’d gi­ven up on that sort of trick af­ter Job), so it was im­pos­sib­le that she had just re­ad all abo­ut it in the pa­ges of a ma­nusc­ript which had be­en writ­ten ear­li­er.

  Had she re­ad the new Black Rock chap­ter first, she co­uld ha­ve bla­med what had hap­pe­ned to her on the story. She co­uld ha­ve ar­gu­ed that it had so­me­how ca­used her to hal­lu­ci­na­te the long drop to the sea. But she hadn’t re­ad anyt­hing un­til af­ter she’d re­ga­ined cons­ci­o­us­ness and, as far as she knew, sto­ri­es didn’t se­ep out of se­aled en­ve­lo­pes and in­to yo­ur mind.

  After what’s hap­pe­ned to you to­day, you didn’t ought to be surp­ri­sed if that was exactly what hap­pe­ned, she told her­self.

  The fall thro­ugh her lo­un­ge do­or and the sub­se­qu­ent plun­ge to­wards the sea, still se­emed just as re­al in her me­mory as it had when it hap­pe­ned.

  Or when it didn’t hap­pen, as the ca­se may be, she told her­self.

  And it hadn’t hap­pe­ned. S’n’J had wo­ken up on her lo­un­ge flo­or, a few mi­nu­tes af­ter plun­ging thro­ugh the do­or in­to the empty air. The lo­un­ge flo­or had be­en the­re all the ti­me. What she’d se­en had not be­en the­re.

  And she co­uld ha­ve sto­mac­hed this, if that was all she’d be­en as­ked to sto­mach. But when she’d awo­ken, da­zed and fe­eling a re­li­ef so in­ten­se she tho­ught she ought to be ab­le to to­uch it with her hands, she’d ma­de the mis­ta­ke of thin­king it was all over.

  She’d got the whisky bot­tle and the glass and set to work. And when the da­zed fe­eling left her, S’n’J had fo­und she felt strong eno­ugh to open the en­ve­lo­pe which had be­en left in her ho­me.

  Now, lo­oking back on that mo­ment it se­emed as if she had be­en com­pel­led. She was cer­ta­in that she hadn’t de­ci­ded to open t
he en­ve­lo­pe but that the de­ci­si­on had be­en ta­ken for her. Per­haps by the story it­self. It was crazy, she knew, but the story se­emed to pos­sess a li­fe of its own.

  On re­ac­hing that last sec­ti­on, which she had re­ad with mo­uth aga­pe and mind ag­hast, S’n’J had be­gun to fe­el as if she was be­ing men­tal­ly ra­ped. As if so­me­one, so­mew­he­re, had a di­rect li­ne to the in­si­de of her he­ad, and wasn’t using what he fo­und the­re to const­ruct a bo­ok, but was bu­sily pum­ping in his own ma­te­ri­al to rep­la­ce what was the­re al­re­ady. She didn’t fe­el as if Pe­ter Per­fect, who­ever he was, was ra­iding her mind in or­der to chan­ge Snowy Dres­den in­to her, but rat­her as if he was trying to chan­ge her in­to Snowy Dres­den.

  She ca­me to the conc­lu­si­on that she co­uldn’t trust anyt­hing she’d se­en, he­ard or felt sin­ce ar­ri­ving at the King Art­hur Ho­tel in Tin­ta­gel that af­ter­no­on. From then on­wards, she had no idea what was re­ality and what wasn’t.

  But she ho­ped that her ar­ran­ge­ment with James at Cars Inc. tur­ned out to be re­al be­ca­use she didn’t think she co­uld stand to be alo­ne for very much lon­ger. Even if it wasn’t go­ing to be the se­xu­al event of the ye­ar, right now she just ne­eded so­me­one the­re who wo­uld hold her if she wan­ted to be held.

  And she did want to be held. Very badly in­de­ed.

  She fis­hed aro­und in her hand­bag, fo­und the bo­ok of matc­hes James had gi­ven her, with his ho­me num­ber writ­ten in, to­ok it to the pho­ne and di­al­led the num­ber.