There was something ominous contained—caged—within these stone walls. A truth that was unattainable. A secret. The word formed in her mind as though written in stark, unembellished letters.
She stirred on the couch, twisting her neck to push her face into its cushioned back.
In her dream she was being called, but no matter where she looked, the source lay hidden. Faraway though it was, the voice was that of a child and its urgency was muted by the distance.
And suddenly Eve was dreaming of herself: she was looking down at her own sleeping body as though her mind had left it and was floating near the ceiling. Now her physical self was no longer inside the house. Instead, she was somewhere that was full of green space, a place where children played, where her own child, little Cally, slumbered in her buggy close by the bench, while her brother, almost one year older, played in the sandpit not far away.
Something was wrong, though. Something was terribly wrong. Yet still the body below her—her real self—slept on.
Five-year-old Cameron was slowly vanishing as sand ran through his tiny fingers to pile around and over his bent knees. Disappearing as a whole, not bit by bit, but fading as if a white fog was enveloping him. And still Eve dreamed, unaware of this dangerous decline of her son, sleeping as his image weakened, dimmed from sight, smothered by the fog.
Then she became aware of another presence in her dream, although this was so clear, so real, that she wondered—in her dream—if she was no longer asleep. The dark but sharp silhouette of a man loomed over her. The figure had narrow shoulders and a thin physique, and as he leaned towards her, his shadowed face only inches away from hers, there came a smell that was strange yet somehow familiar, an odour that mingled with his own thick rancid breath. She tried to turn her head away, but twin lights from the dark caverns of his deep-set eyes held her there mesmerized and afraid. Eve no longer viewed herself from above—she was back inside herself. She felt a huge pressure on her, weighing her down.
He exhaled and his breath was worse than before: it was stinking, fetid, the scent of a putrid cesspit. Yet still there was that underlying scent, the pungent odour of… of detergent? She felt scrutinized, inspected; she felt dread. Eve shrank away, but the head, with its gleaming inset pinpoint eyes, followed her. Although still shadowed, the features of the dream-visitor were revealed: he had a sharp, hooked nose, prominent, as his cleft chin was prominent above a thin scrawny neck; she still could not tell the colour of his eyes, she could only see those two gleaming lights that shone from them, reflections only but like searchlights used by him to scour her soul. That this man was wicked, she had no doubt; it was as evident as the malodour that came through his thin lips.
He raised a big-knuckled hand to her cheek, his bony fingers curled. He drew the hand down the skin of her face and, although his touch was weak, his flesh seemed to scratch against her own. In the dream and in the reality she gave out an anguished cry.
A lump of coal on the fire cracked with the heat, but its sound—and the sound of her own cry—failed to rouse her. Still she lay in troubled sleep. She groaned. Her leg flexed, an arm crossed her breasts, hand gripping her shoulder.
The nightmare should have awakened her, as such fantasies do when they become unbearable, but it failed and she dreamt on.
She reared away from the cold touch and just when the terror was at its zenith, she felt the clawed hand withdraw to be replaced by another touch, one that was gentle and soothing. A small soft hand was stroking her cheek and the fear very slowly began to leave her.
Her body relaxed and the touching of this little hand—a child's hand—was healing, driving away both terror… and guilt. She had the vaguest impression of a child's featureless face under a mop of hair so fair it looked white, but the image was both weak and fleeting. The nightmare faltered, became nebulous, finally left her.
She called out his name, a question.
'Cameron?'
And it was the sound of her own voice that finally woke her.
She stirred, almost reluctantly opening her eyes, not wanting the serenity to end, hoping to find it was real.
But the 'presence' vanished with the awakening.
'Cameron?' she said again, and even though there was no reply, the wonderful peace was not completely gone.
Eve sat up and looked around as if expecting to find her son somewhere in the room with her. But the room was empty of any other person. Nothing had changed.
Except the photograph of Cam on the nearby table had fallen on the floor.
It lay on its side, supported by the strut at the back, and Cam's eyes seemed to be looking directly into her own.
And although his photograph drew her attention, she was aware that there was something else different about the high-ceilinged sitting room. That odd aroma still scented the air and she now recognized the smell. It was the sharp reek of carbolic soap; it was all that was left of the dream.
16: CHESTER
'Hold on to Chester while I find something to tie him with.'
Gabe rose to his feet, a dark damp patch on the knees of his jeans where he had been kneeling on the wet grass. He hung on to the dog's collar until Loren took over.
'Good boy,' she said soothingly into the animal's cocked ear. 'Nothing to be frightened of, is there?' She wrapped an arm round Chester's neck.
Gabe shook his head in bemused irritation. He'd tried to coax their pet up to Crickley Hall's front door, but the dog wasn't having it. The more Gabe pulled, the more Chester squatted on his haunches and dug his paws into the turf. Gabe couldn't understand the mutt's fear. Sure, there wasn't much that was homely about the Hall, nothing comfortable about it, but it was just a house, stone, mortar and timber. Maybe Chester was picking up vibes from Eve, who seemed to think Crickley Hall was haunted. Wacky, maybe, but Gabe didn't want to argue with her; his wife was still in an ultrasensitive state. Which was why he had promised to find somewhere else to rent if she hadn't settled in after two weeks—no, one week now. He was sure she'd change her mind once she got rid of the idea that there were ghosts in the place. But in the meantime, what to do about Chester?
Gabe and Loren had found the runaway half a mile up the lane, heading for unknown territory. He had stopped by the side of the road when Gabe and Loren drove up, his head high and eyes bright as though he recognized the Range Rover. And there had been no problem in getting him to hop up onto the back seat, his short-haired stumpy tail wagging happily, responding to Loren's hugs and kisses enthusiastically. But when Gabe turned the 4x4 around and began heading back to Crickley Hall, Chester had become agitated again.
Gabe had to pick up the dog and carry his skinny quivering body across the bridge and then he had to drag the mongrel by his collar across the lawn towards the house's solid front door. Chester had protested all the way, his brown eyes bulging. Gabe had reluctantly taken him back to the oak tree where the swing hung, holding down his exasperation more for Loren's sake than for Chester's; the dog's panic was upsetting her.
'Okay, mutt,' Gabe grumbled, 'let's see how you like being outside all day.'
'Dad!' Loren objected. 'We can't do that. What if it starts raining again?'
Gabe glanced up at the troubled sky and saw the clouds had become dark and threatening.
'We'll have to see,' he told Loren. 'You keep him calm while I go look for something to tie him with.'
He left daughter and dog by the oak, Loren's grip on Chester firm but loving—she was whispering sweet nothings in Chester's ear—and strode towards the battered-looking shed that stood some distance away from the house, bushes on the rising gorge behind it brushing its flat roof. There was no padlock on the door's locking arm and it opened with hinges squealing and bottom plank scuffing the ground.