Sker House (34 page)

“We're trying. What else can we do?”

“Ceiling.”

“She's right,” said Machen from his position on the floor. “Everything's covered up now, like. Except the ceiling. That's all still full of scribbles.”

The lighter died again, and Dale threw it to the floor in frustration. He stretched, but the ceiling was just out of his reach. The distance could be made up if he jumped but that wouldn't be a very effective method of painting. Plus, he was unsure what would happen if somebody his size started jumping up and down in a subterranean chamber. Then he had an idea. He felt about with his hands until he located the altar, and climbed on top of it. “Pass me some paint and a brush!” he shouted.

Someone thrust a paint brush at his stomach. He grabbed it, then flailed around until he felt a tin of paint someone was holding up. “Rolly, Machen, keep trying to make those lighters work!” In the harsh light of the sparks, Dale dipped the brush in the tin then immediately threw his arm over his head. For one surreal moment, he felt like a rock star pumping a fist into the air on a stage before thousands of salivating fans. Then he sent his arm slashing in a diagonal motion. The strike must have hurt the heart of the beast, as there was an almost audible groan from the massed ranks of shadows lurking all around them and the house itself seemed to sigh.

He dipped the brush again, adjusted his position slightly, then attacked a different part of the ceiling. Maybe the strings of words and letters were a physical representation of an incantation of some kind, and the most effective way of breaking the spell would be to disrupt the continuity. He moved his arm in huge, all-encompassing strokes. Up and down, left and right. His shoulder ached and white hot bolts of pain shot through his back and neck from the effort. More than once, Dale felt something touch him, something of very little substance. Whatever it was made his skin crawl.

When the tin of paint he was using was empty, he dropped it to the floor and asked for another. Somebody pushed a plastic handle into his hand. He could tell by its weight the second tin was almost empty. Also, it was smaller than the last, making it difficult to force the head of the brush into the sticky liquid near the bottom. When Dale raised his arm to start painting again he just had to hope there was some paint on the brush. While he worked, Rolly and Machen frantically strummed at their lighters and did a quick inventory, counting off the empty tins which were clattered noisily against a wall.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

That must mean...

“Is this the last tin?”

“We think so.”

“Let's see where we are at, shall we?” Dale stopped painting, stepped off the altar and rested his hands on his knees. He was exhausted. He thought he had actually ran out of paint a while ago, and since then had simply been rubbing a dry brush against the ceiling. To his, and probably everyone else's surprise, Machen finally succeeded in lighting a candle and the tiny room was suddenly filled with a pale yellow glow.

Dale looked up to admire his handiwork. Apart from a few scattered spots where symbols were still visible, the ceiling was now covered in a hideous collage of colour. He realised he hadn't heard a peep out of Lucy since her last outburst, which to him it felt like hours though it could have been no more than a few minutes. She was still standing in the centre of the room, but thankfully had seemed to have stopped levitating. “Lucy?”

“What?”

“Is that you?”

“Of course its me, stupe. Who d'ya think it is?”

Lucy was back. Which was just as well because if he took her back to Southampton with a Welsh accent, her family would kill him.

Rolly lit another candle. “And then there was light!” he said, somewhat belatedly.

“Which makes it all the more impressive that he did everything else in the dark,” snapped Lucy, proving she was indeed back to her old self and firing on all cylinders again.

As Dale examined their handiwork he saw that despite functioning blind and much of the time in a state of near-terror, as a group they'd performed admirably. The once-uniform stone walls were now adorned with garish streaks of paint. Red, white, green, blue. In places, two or more colours ran together or had been daubed over each other. The entire room looked like a blown-up child's painting. The work wouldn't win any awards for artistic achievement, though it could be an outside bet for some weird abstract piece. The important thing was, virtually no weird symbols were visible any more.

All four of them were standing around the altar, which still took pride of place in the centre of the room, and all four suddenly realized this at the same time and retreated a few awkward steps back. They watched as Rolly passed his candle to Machen and began rummaging through his plethora of pockets. He eventually pulled out Dale's notebook and began leafing through it. Then, apparently finding what he was looking for, he stooped to pick up one of the paint brushes that littered the floor.

“What are you doing now?” asked Dale, bewildered.

“Looking for some space,” Rolly replied. Then, apparently finding one, began painting new symbols on an unbroken diagonal streak of white smeared on a wall.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Machen said, and made a movement toward the older man.

“Relax,” Rolly said. “It's what they call a closing spell. A very powerful one, or so I am led to believe. As long as it stays here, it renders any other spell carried out on the grounds obsolete. Think of it as a kind of insurance policy.”

“Where did you find it?” Lucy asked. “Has it been handed down through generations of custodians?”

“No. I looked it up on the internet before the power went out.”

Lucy looked at Dale, then back at Rolly. “Well, I guess that would be okay.”

Rolly smirked, “Thank you for allowing me to indulge myself, Miss.”

“Don't mention it,” said Lucy. She then abruptly turned and without another word stuck her bum in the air and began scooting back through the tunnel. After her graceful exit, the others followed suit and began filing out of the tiny subterranean hovel. Dale was the last to leave.

Chapter 38:

Epilogue

Five months after their first eventful stay at Sker House, Dale and Lucy returned unannounced one unseasonably sunny Saturday afternoon. At first glance, nothing much seemed to have changed. The building was just as large and imposing as ever, except there wasn't enough room to put the car in the car park any more. “Business must have picked up!” Dale said as he carefully manoeuvred into a tight space on the road outside.

“That's nice,” Lucy giggled from the passenger seat. As she opened the door a ray of sunlight caught the diamond encrusted in the ring on her finger, making Dale's heart swell with pride. They walked hand in hand down the drive to the foyer, the front door of which stood open invitingly. The soft buzz of conversation came from inside. They had purposely arrived just before dinner so they could have one of Ruth's home-cooked meals, and were surprised to find the place already so lively.

To Dale's relief, the bar area was still intact. The only new addition to the décor seemed to be the framed magazine article hanging up behind the bar in such a position that it would attract the most attention. The two-page spread was blown up so big that even from some distance, the title and byline were plainly visible, superimposed over a breathtaking colour photo of Sker House set against a dramatic skyline filled with angry, bloated grey clouds:

Secrets of Sker, by Dale Morgan.

Original images and additional research by Lucy Kerr.

In the top left corner were two pictures of the authors. The minute the issue of Solent News containing their article was published, Dale had sent down a couple of copies, and was glad to see that Machen approved. The published feature concentrated mainly on the macabre history of Sker rather than the 'other business.' Neither Dale nor Lucy had any great desire to recount any of the more recent bizarre happenings they were involved in, many of which Lucy took incredibly personally and would take a hell of a lot of explaining, anyway.

Old Rolly was sitting in his usual place alone at a table in the corner, and had spotted them when they came in. He watched them expectantly, the beginnings of a smile tugging on the corners of a mouth still mostly obscured by a tangled mass of white facial hair. Lucy did a little squeal and rushed over to greet him, while Dale went to get the pre-dinner drinks. He planned to enjoy his only alcoholic beverage as much as he could. At the bar, he was surprised to find a sharp-featured but pleasant-looking middle-aged woman polishing glasses. “Yes, my lovely?” she said. “What can I get you?”

“Erm, a pint of lager and a large orange juice, please.” As the woman turned away to get the order he added, “I was just wondering, where's Mr Machen, the landlord?”

“Mr Machen? Oh, you mean Mach. Don't call him mister, he says that's just for the...”

“Tax man,” Dale finished. “We know.”

The woman grinned. “Yes, that's right. He's just off seeing to something. Is there anything I can help you with? I'm his wife, Sandra.”

Dale smiled. At last! Irrefutable proof that the lady of the house is alive and well. There were more than a few moments when he and Lucy had imagined Machen had murdered her and buried her somewhere in the grounds. “It's okay. I'm sure we'll catch up with him later.”

As Sandra Machen handed over the drinks, she pressed a painted fingernail against her lower lip and said, “I recognise you from somewhere. Are you the journalists who wrote that article about us?”

Dale grinned. Did somebody just call him a journalist? “You mean that one?” he asked, motioning at the framed picture. “If so, I guess we are.”

“Then the drinks are on us. You know, after you published that article a couple of local newspapers picked up the story. Made quite a splash. We have copies ready for framing, but haven't got around to doing it yet. Things have been so busy lately, we haven't had time! A film crew from the Travel Channel is coming in next week to make a programme. Your article set the ball rolling, we can't thank you enough!”

“It was a pleasure,” Dale said with his best 'aw shucks' shrug. “We're just glad more people have started coming here. You and your husband deserve it.”

“Why, thank you for saying so,” said Sandra, with a polite little curtsey.

“Thanks for the drinks.”

Just then, Machen himself appeared. “Well, if it isn't our friendly journalists!” he said. Clean-shaven and sporting a new designer polo shirt, he looked a few pounds lighter and at least ten years younger. When he gave Dale a brief, brutal bear hug he noticed the landlord now smelled of aftershave rather than Jack Daniels. “I see you've met the missus, then!”

“Yes, I have,” confirmed Dale. Behind Machen trotted Champ the dog, who also seemed to be new and improved. There was a spring in his step and a sparkle in his eye that hadn't been there before. Tail beating at the air excitedly, he trotted over and rubbed his damp snout against Dale's hand. There was another squeal of delight from Rolly's table, and the dog scampered off to greet Lucy.

The whole atmosphere of Sker House seemed to have changed. The dark cloud that had previously settled over the property had lifted. Late autumn sunshine streamed through the windows, and Rolly was no longer drinking alone in the bar. A group of four men sat in a corner drinking beer and talking about sea fishing, a reserved-looking middle-aged couple were at the bar studying the menu, while a younger couple tried desperately to control their giggling, romper-suited toddler who seemed intent on climbing over as many tables and chairs as possible.

“Do Ruth and Izzy still work here?” Dale was eager to catch up with them on his visit. Although they hadn't been such an integral part of events as Old Rolly and Machen, he and Lucy both felt a strong bond with the mother-and-daughter team.

“Ruth does,” Machen replied. “She's in the kitchen cooking as we speak. A bit busy, she is. We just pulled up some nice looking onions from the veg garden. I'm sure she'll get a move on with your dinner when she knows it's you two, like.”

“Good to hear, but we don't mind waiting our turn. And Izzy?”

“Izzy's, gone,” Machen said stiffly. “Worked here all over summer, saved up enough money to pass her driving test and buy a car, then went away to college, she did. Chepstow, I think. Just like that, like.”

He didn't want to show the landlord whose displeasure was obvious, but Dale was secretly happy for the girl. It was difficult for the older generation to understand the calling of the young. He sometimes wondered if it was borne out of a kind of latent envy, a result of wishing they could have another chance. If he did have another shot at life in the modern technological age, maybe Machen himself would choose to move away and spend some time in a different part of the world. For a young girl like Izzy, growing up in a tiny, isolated place like Nottage couldn't be much fun.

“So will you be wanting a room, like? Or is it just dinner you're after?”

“Just dinner, I'm afraid,” replied Dale. “We're on our way down to visit my parents for the weekend, then back to Southampton tomorrow night. Lucy's doing a post-grad course at uni, and I just started writing for a magazine in London. I love the job, but it's a long commute.”

“Sorry to hear that. About the commute, I mean. But congratulations on the job. I would suggest having a little celebration, like. But I'm officially on the wagon now, as they say.” The landlord and his wife exchanged a look, leaving Dale in no doubt as to the origin of this drastic lifestyle change.

“Good for you,” Dale said. “I couldn't, anyway. I'm driving.”

“Well, another time.” The regret was evident, but the man seemed a lot more together now. Confident and controlled. The nervous ticks and awful habit of tripping over his words seemed to have vanished.

“Hey listen, while we have a minute...” Dale began, and then stopped. He had no idea how to proceed. He didn't want to bring buried memories to the surface and jeopardize this friendly reunion, but he had to know...