INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR JAMES HERBERT AND THE MAGIC COTTAGE
"A modern story of horror and magic . . . will chill your nerves."
—Guernsey Evening Press
"Brilliant"
—Sunday (London) Times
"James Herbert has again produced a spine-chilling masterpiece."
—Harborough Mail
"One to chill you."
—British Vogue
"A chilling yarn . . . Mr. Herbert at his best!"
—Eastern Daily Press
"A spellbinding tale of mystery and magical happenings."
—South Wales Evening Post
"James Herbert continues to enthrall his readers."
—Jersey Evening Post
"A triumph . . . his best book to date!"
—The Liverpool Daily Post
THE
MAGIC
COTTAGE
Copyright © 1986 by James Herbert
All rights reserved.
MAGIC
DO YOU believe in Magic?
I mean, real Magic, capital M. Not rabbits out of hats, disappearing sequined ladies, or silver spheres that dance in the air. The real stuff, not tricks, illusions. I mean spells, enchantments—witchery, even. Damaged limbs that heal overnight, animals that trust in humans, paintings that come alive. Shadowy figures that aren't really there. More, there's more, but it's too soon to tell.
Maybe—probably—you don't believe. Maybe you half believe. Or maybe you want to believe.
A kind of magic I once knew, long before we took the cottage, came from powder or pills shared with friends; but that was just delusion. And a waste. I learned of real Magic when we came to "Gramarye."
That was Good Magic.
Yet everything has its opposite, and I found that there, too.
If you like, and if you're willing to suspend belief for a while—as I eventually had to—I'll tell you about it.
LOOKING
MIDGE SAW the ad first. She'd been scouring the classified columns of the Sunday Times for weeks, circling the more interesting properties with a red felt-tip, her enthusiasm for leaving the dirty city a little greater than mine. Every week she'd been presenting me with a whole number of red circles to peruse, and we'd go through each one, discussing their merits and drawbacks, following up those that survived. So far none had come up to expectation.
On that particular Sunday there was only one circle to look at. A cottage. Adjoining woodland, secluded position. Needed some restoration.
So what's so special? I thought.
"Hey, Midge!" She was in the kitchen of the apartment we rented near London's Baron's Court—a large place with high ceilings and high rent, and a complex of rooms that allowed for Midge's painting and my music, with never the twain unnecessarily meeting. But we wanted something of our own. Something "rustic" was in our minds although, like I say, Midge was keener than me.
She appeared in the doorway, dark haired and pixie eyed, five-foot-one of pure small-featured lusciousness (to me anyway, and I'm not unchoosy).
I tapped the newspaper. "Only one?"
Midge tossed the dishcloth back toward the sink—we'd just finished a late (very late) breakfast—and padded barefoot toward the sofa I loafed upon. She knelt, chastely drawing her summer-thin dressing gown over her knees. When she spoke she looked directly at the ad, and not at me.
"It's the only interesting one."
That puzzled me. "It doesn't actually say much. A dilapidated cottage is all it tells me. And where the hell is Cantrip?"
"I looked it up. It's near Bunbury."
I couldn't help grinning. "Oh yeah?"
"That's in Hampshire."
"At least that's in its favor—I was getting worried about some of the remote places you were taking an interest in."
"A remote part of Hampshire."
A groan from me. "Is that possible?"
"Any idea of how big the New Forest is?"
"Bigger than Hyde Park?"
"Somewhat. A huge what."
"And Cantrip is in the heart of the forest."
"Not quite, but you're getting warm." Then she smiled, her eyes even more pixieish. "Don't worry, you'll be able to get back to London for sessions easily enough. You can pick up highways practically all the way."
I ought to tell you now I'm a session musician, one of that quiet breed that earns a generous living behind the scenes of the upfront pop world, working in recording studios and occasionally backing touring artistes—usually those whose bands aren't allowed over from the States. My instrument's the guitar, my music—well, you name it: rock, pop, soul (I've even dubbed punk), a little jazz and, when I can, some light classical. Maybe more about all that later.
"You still haven't explained why this one," I persisted.
She was quiet for a moment, just studying the page as though looking for the answer herself. Then she turned to me. "It feels right,' she said.
Yep. It feels right. That's all.
I sighed, knowing Midge always had great intuition, but not quite prepared to accept it this time. "Midge . . ." I warned.
"Mike . . ." she said, just as gravely.
"Come on, be serious. I'm not trekking down to Hampshire just on a whim."
The imp took my hand and kissed the knuckles. "I like forests," she had the nerve to say. "And the price is right."
"There's no price mentioned."
"Offers invited. It'll be right, you'll see."
Mildly exasperated, but not annoyed, I replied, "The place is probably really run-down."
"All the cheaper."
"Think of the work!"
"We'll send the builders in first."
"You're a bit ahead of yourself, kiddo."
The merest shadow of uncertainty flickered across her face—or perhaps it was a sudden anxiety; I can read all sorts of things into that expression, knowing what I do now.
"I can't explain Mike. Let me call tomorrow, find out more. It could be totally wrong."
Her last sentence was hardly convincing, but I let things go at that. It was peculiar, but I was beginning to have a good feeling about the cottage myself.
GRAMARYE
YOU'VE SEEN the film, you've read the book. You know the one—there've been so many: The young couple find the home of their dreams, the wife's ecstatic, the husband's happy but more controlled; they move in, the kids (usually one of each) tear around the empty rooms. But we know there's something sinister about the place, because we've read the blurb and paid our money. Slowly, THINGS start to happen. There's something nasty in the locked room at the top of the old creaky stairs; or something lurks in the cellar below, which is possibly itself the Gateway to Hell. You know the story. At first, Dad's oblivious to his family going nuts around him—he doesn't believe in the supernatural, or things that go splodge in the night; to him, there really is No Such Thing as a Vampire. Until something happens to him, that is. Then all hell breaks loose. You know it like you wrote the story yourself.
Well, this is similar. But different. You'll see.
We drove down to Cantrip the following Tuesday (our work-style allows such freedom), Midge having called the number in the ad the day before and finding it belonged to a real estate agent. He'd told her a little more about the cottage, not much, but enough to increase her enthusiasm. At present it was unoccupied, the owner having died some months earlier; it had taken this long to have the deceased's affairs sorted out before the property could be put on the market. Midge was on edge throughout the journey and kept telling me she didn't expect too much, the place would no doubt be a huge disappointment, but it did sound interesting from the agent's description, it could just turn out to be ideal . . .