The Spinetinglers Anthology 2011 Read online

  I followed him and stood by as he identified the photograph for me.

  “Here she is sir, alongside her uncle. Pretty little thing. Such a dreadful shame.”

  I looked upon the sepia photograph set behind glass in a small, black frame. It showed the stout figure of Mr. Burroughs standing with the hotel in the background, looking out, white-haired and stern faced at the photographer. At his side sat a wonderful creature in a white frock and a bonnet that might have been a shade of red. Black ringlets coiled down on either side of her porcelain face which looked out with a melancholy expression of loss and loneliness.

  I gazed at some of the other photographs and called the attention of Stoakes to one of them.

  “I say, this is surely Marion too is it not?”

  “I believe that is just a picture of the hotel sir,” he said, shuffling over to inspect it.

  “Look here” I said. “One of the windows is open, on the second floor. There is a face peering out. A young girl by the look of it.”

  “Why so there is sir. That’s most peculiar. I never noticed it before. Dear me, my eyes are getting bad. Are you sure it’s a girl?”

  I insisted that it was, although the unwitting subject had obviously moved as the picture had been taken, leaving a blurred white smear at the window. But one could clearly make out a pretty set of eyes, a delicate nose and a sad mouth, gazing out at the sea, forlorn and solitary.

  “But here sir, we are mistaken,” said Stoakes. “Look at the date – July 11th, 1885. A full eight months after poor Marion was laid to rest in Braunton cemetery. It cannot be her. A trick of the light, a reflection of the sun from an open window pane and nothing more. Pay it no mind.”

  I stared at the little face for a while longer and despite my best efforts, I was unable to fully bring myself around to Stoakes’ opinion. I asked him which room the open window belonged to and after a while deliberating which face of the hotel was photographed and a quick count of the windows on the second floor, he concluded that it must be the window of Room 11.

  ***

  The grim, grey sky of autumn hung over the dark sands and the surf boomed rhythmically, its sound penetrating the old stone walls of the hotel as I made my way up the staircase to the second floor. The few guests that were resident had vacated their rooms and had disappeared into the surrounding villages or were braving the billowing winds on the beach below, leaving the corridors eerily silent. The floorboards under the soft red carpets creaked with every step I took towards Room 11.

  I had been expecting it to be locked, but as I approached, I could make out a slim sliver of light edging the doorway. It was ajar and I reached out gingerly to push the door aside with my fingertips.

  It flew open, jerked away from me by a force from within and a dark shadow filled the open space, accompanied by a high pitched scream of terror.

  “Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry sir,” said the maid, trying to compose herself. ‘You startled me is all. I was just finishing up here and was on my way out. Begging your pardon sir, but aren’t you in another room? This one’s been unoccupied all season. That’s why I was sent to air it out. Awfully musty in there.”

  “My mistake,” I replied. “I seem to have walked a little too far. I am sorry for giving you such a start.”

  The girl waved my apology politely aside and bustled off down the corridor to attend to other duties leaving me alone at the doorway of Room 11.

  The interior of the room was almost identical to my own with the exception of the oil painting above the bed which in this room was of a vase of flowers. A large wooden wardrobe lurked in the corner casting a shadow over the pink bed sheets. The window was wide open and a strong sea breeze filled the room making the curtains billow. A dead leaf whipped in on the wind fluttered silently down to rest upon the carpet.

  I took a good look around, still unsure of my reasons for being there, or what I was hoping to find. I stepped up the window and looked out. This was very spot where something that looked like little Marion McMurron’s face had been inadvertently caught by the photographer who must had set his camera up on the grassy lawn down below. Beyond was the sea and I could make out the vague shape of Lundy Island, grey and flat on the horizon.

  I walked up to the large mirror that hung on the wall facing the bed and studied my reflection. I looked tired and a little sallow-cheeked. A movement in the corner of the glass caught my attention and as I watched I saw the door of the sturdy wardrobe open silently behind me - caught by the breeze no doubt. I turned to face it and was startled to see that it was in fact, shut. I looked back into the mirror. The door stood wide open. I checked again. There was no mistaking it. The mirror was showing something that simply was not there. As I looked closer into the mirror, a thin, pale object that was being extended from behind the open door made my heart leap in painful spasms of terror. There was no mistaking it – it was a small, human arm, slippery and dead-looking belonging to some person concealed behind the varnished wood.

  I stood, chilled to the bone, wishing that I could flee the room, but at the same time too terrified to turn my head to confront whatever horror lurked there. The hand extended a bony finger and pointed to the open door that led to the bathroom suite. Fearing for my sanity, I at last managed to turn around, dreading the result of this action, but all that greeted me was the blank wood of the closed wardrobe door. I looked back in the mirror and saw that whatever madness had possessed it (or me) had dissipated and all that remained was a reversed view of a perfectly normal room.

  It took me a good few minutes to pluck up the courage to look inside the wardrobe. I was determined to get to the bottom of this and somehow overcame by burning desire to dash from the room and at once check myself out of the hotel.

  I flung open the door, fully prepared to leap backwards in terror at what I might find, but was perhaps even more startled to find it empty apart from a coat rail and a few twisted hangers that lay amongst the mothballs that scattered its wooden bottom.

  I went into the bathroom and stared at the gleaming white ceramic and brass taps - sterile and colourless. What was I supposed to find here? What importance did the ghostly arm attach to this apparently normal bathroom?

  I was overcome by a feeling of sudden dizziness. My vision seemed to shift and I clutched at the doorframe. The scene shifted before me and I found myself looking at the same bathroom, but it seemed different somehow - the light shining in from the window had a different quality and a few feet from me, a man in dark clothes knelt on the tiled floor. He was leaning over the bathtub, his back blocking my view of it and he seemed to be struggling with something. He leaned down heavily into the tub and water splashed up over the ceramic rim, slopping onto the tiles.

  I was rooted to the ground by some unseen force and was unable to approach the figure, but soon the very blood in my veins seemed to freeze as I caught a brief glimpse of a little, pale arm, as of a child, thrash upwards out of the bathtub and wave, frantic but futile. The man’s efforts increased and he leaned in more, forcing the little arm down under the water.

  I screamed. I howled and cursed the man. I begged him to stop. His head lifted briefly and he looked about him as if he had detected a small, almost inaudible sound, but ultimately dismissed it and continued about his gruesome business.

  Minutes passed that felt like hours as I was forced to watch this abominable scene play out before me. Eventually the man stood up, his clothes dripping, and he stared down at the bathtub, his work complete. Stooping down he lifted the sodden mass of the dead girl from the water and turned to face the doorway.

  I almost fell back in appalled shock. The man was none other than Mr. Burroughs, stern faced and cold eyed. I did not need to look at the deathly white face of the drowned girl he carried in his arms to know that it was Marion McMurron, her slick tendrils of hair and soaked nightdress dripping torrents of water across the bathroom floor.

  I lashed out at the fiend as he came towards me bearing the fruits of his terri
ble crime, but again my efforts were futile as he passed right through me and vanished into the room behind.

  The room shifted once more and I found myself looking at the bathroom I had first entered with its empty tub and dry floor.

  ***

  As I descended the stairway to the reception desk, I went through what I had witnessed in my mind. What was the meaning behind it? Was it no more than a hallucination? A waking nightmare brought on by my tired condition? But I convinced myself that what I had witnessed had been real, or if you will, a delayed vision of reality, a murder that had occurred a year ago to the day and had been carried along the passages of time to my consciousness like a ripple from a stone thrown into a pond. I must believe it! And I swore to myself that I would do whatever was in my power to ensure that the monstrous Mr. Burroughs would hang for his crime.

  I approached the main desk where Stoakes was standing talking to the maid I had met outside Room 11.

  “I say, Stoakes,” I began, “Have you seen your employer about today? There is a matter I wish to take up with him.”

  “As a matter of fact sir, you just missed him. He went out the main entrance. On one of his walks I suppose, although it is a bit late in the day for it. Dreadful mist too, but that’s as to be expected in late October. He was in a furious hurry and barely shaved too, most unusual for him.”

  “I can say something as to that,” said the maid. “I just brought him his shaving water so as he could freshen up a bit.”

  “A little late for shaving is it not?” I enquired, interrupting the girl.

  “Well, he seemed to have had a bad night and has slept most of the morning. Kept talking about noises he heard in the night. Kept him up he said. Well the point is this; I remained to collect the sheets from his bed whilst I was there. He was standing in front of his mirror shaving when all of a sudden he cut himself and dropped his razor as if he was startled by something. He was looking at something in the top left corner of the mirror, or perhaps something was looking back at him for all his expression said. My word, he went as white as a sheet and started backing away from the mirror! I asked whatever the matter was, but he didn’t answer me.

  After a bit he seemed to regain himself and hurried about his business. But he wouldn’t go near that mirror. Soon as he was ready, he was off like a rabbit, still putting on his coat as he walked down the hallway. I can honestly say that I hope I never see what Mr. Burroughs saw in any mirror for as long as I live.”

  “Really Sarah, you shouldn’t be discussing Mr. Burroughs in such a way in front of a guest,” scolded Stoakes. “Now be about your business girl.”

  “Sorry sir,” replied the maid, and she scuttled off to her duties.

  “Funny fancies these girls have,” he said to me after she had gone. “I expect Mr. Burroughs was keen to be out as quick as possible so he could fit in a walk before it gets dark.”

  “More than likely,” I pretended. “I wonder if you could alert me the minute he returns. There is something urgent I wish to discuss with him.”

  “Certainly sir. He won’t be long I’m sure.”

  ***

  Well, Stoakes was wrong as it turned out. Mr. Burroughs never returned to his hotel. There is little need for me to relate all the events of that night - the anniversary of Marion McMurron’s murder - and so I shall get straight to the conclusion of this saddening and frightening episode.

  In the early hours of the morning, before dawn had fully broken across the sands below the hotel, the thick mist crept back out to sea. A police search party that had been dispatched upon the notification that Mr. Burroughs had not returned from his afternoon walk came across the body of the hotel manager lying upon the very stretch of sharp rocks where his niece had been found exactly a year previously. He had drowned. The incoming tide had not yet washed away the man’s footprints in the wet sand and one police officer noted that only the tips of his shoes had left any imprint. This would indicate that the man was running.

  “Running from the tide no doubt as it washed in over those rocks,” remarked his superior.

  “Not so, sir,” replied the first officer. “As you can make out, the toe tips are pointed in the direction of the rocks, not away from them. He was running towards his death it seems, though what was chasing him to it I can’t imagine.”

  It came to light a few days later that an elderly couple who had also been out walking on the cliff tops had encountered Mr. Burroughs and they remarked that he seemed most agitated. He did not speak to them, but continued onwards down to the beach constantly looking back over his shoulder as if somebody were following him before eventually vanishing into the mist.

  I told no one about my vision in Room 11, for what would be the use now? It seems that a power greater than my own exacted its vengeance on the evil man. Shortly after this terrible business I left Devonshire and returned to my academic pursuits. I heard later that the hotel was taken over by a large company that already owned much property in the area and there it stands still, overlooking the dark sands below.

  I have also heard a tale that does the rounds of the local public houses, recited by pipe-smoking old men around the hearth to wide eyed audiences. It tells that travellers who find themselves caught in the mist of late autumn on that particular beach have often heard an eerie tittering as that of a gleeful child nearby. They turn around to seek out the source of the sound but of course nobody is there.

  Nothing but the mist and the distant sound of the sea.

  Cedric and Chloe

  By Ken Courtenay

  The bright spring day was coming to a close as the old couple emerged on to the apartment building’s steps. Three other neighborhood residents were sitting on the steps as well and greeted the couple as they passed down to the street.

  “Hi Cedric! Hi Chloe! How are you folks this evening?” That was Rob Garner. He had the apartment on the ground floor and his door was right by the apartment building entrance. He was sixty-four years old and one of the youngest residents.

  He was sitting on the stairs with his friends Phil Rogers and Dorothy Raymond. Phil was sixty-eight and lived in the apartment building across the street. Dorothy lived on the second floor of this building. She was also sixty-eight years old.

  Cedric and Chloe Tamaraz were an older couple. They said they were both seventy-seven, but neighbors suspected they were closer to eighty-five. Frail and slow-moving, Cedric and Chloe were always together. When asked how long they had been married they would say simultaneously “forever” and giggle in unison. They had been residents of the building for as long as anybody could remember.

  “Good evening Rob, Phil, Dorothy,” Chloe said in her high-pitched voice, pausing to acknowledge each one as she said their names. “We are fine, thank you. How are you folks?”

  “Oh, we’re doing alright,” Dorothy said as she looked up and down the street. “Now that that cursed real estate developer decided to give up on buying our buildings.”

  They were all quiet for a few moments as they remembered the fear they had endured, the querulous evening meetings with the lawyers they had all attended, the stress they had faced, during those awful months. The prospect of change had been a scary thing for all of them.

  A developer had come through the neighborhood wanting to buy the buildings. He was going to refurbish the apartments and sell them as condominiums. It was part of a revitalization effort that was underway in some of the older parts of town.

  The neighborhood itself had been in decline for several years. Buildings were deteriorating, businesses were moving out and crime was rising. The past couple of months had been the worse with four muggings and one rape of an elderly woman so far.

  But the revitalization would have also meant that the current residents of these buildings would have had to move. Many were elderly, would not have been able to afford the new condominiums, and really had nowhere else to go. So they were relieved when the attorney for the developer showed up at one of their evening meetin
gs and told them that the developer had disappeared and the deal was over. The current rumor was that the developer had run off with his investor’s money and hadn’t been heard from since.

  “Yes,” Chloe sighed to Dorothy, “but there will be others. You just wait and see.” Everyone nodded their heads in agreement, wondering when that time would come.

  “Well,” Cedric said as he patted Chloe’s arm, “we’ll deal with whatever comes our way.”

  “Yes we will,” Chloe agreed resolutely, and with that she and Cedric started off down the sidewalk.

  “You folks take care now,” Phil called after them. “Don’t stay out too late.”

  Without looking back, Cedric waved his hand “good bye” to the group as he and Chloe walked arm in arm into the twilight. They walked almost every night unless it was raining. They really enjoyed the night air and the coolness of the evening hours.

  By the time they had turned the first corner and walked another three blocks, they had been walking for almost twenty minutes. Sometimes they would pause and look at the clothes displayed in the window of a dress shop or the gems laid out in a jewelry store display. Most of the windows were protected by metal bars.

  “You know,” Chloe said as they turned a corner and started down another street, their shadows long in the lamp light, “we really should begin to think about finding another place to live. We can’t stop ‘progress’ and eventually ‘progress’ will make us find another home.”

  Cedric sighed as she spoke, but kept looking forward as they walked. They had had this conversation several times before. The one thing Cedric resisted was change. He avoided change as much as possible.

  “I think,” Chloe continued, “it would be better if we moved when it was our choice to move and not when we were forced to make a choice.”

  “Chloe, my dear,” Cedric said in a tone he always took with her when he didn’t want to discuss an issue further, “we do not have to move now, and there is no one coming to take our building away. We are happy where we are and should not be so quick to interrupt our lives.”