Book of Lost Souls

CW: Murder, death, suicide

The door clicked open, revealing a sliver of darkness from where I knew they were watching. The digital clock clicked over to 1:28 am. I switched off the bedside light, plunging the room into a grey, moonlit twilight. Leaning against the headboard, I tried not to think about what Mr Hall had said about those other people. I guess I was made of stronger stuff. My dry mouth begged to differ.

As on the previous two nights, it began with the floorboards out in the hallway. Graveyard quiet during the day, they came alive at 1:28 am in a banshee keening of rasps and squeals; echoes, perhaps, of the terrible things the house had witnessed. Who would it be tonight? The priest, the hippy, the unborn child? Perhaps others from the book yet to reveal themselves. I hoped it wouldn't be the unborn child, though. That one gives me the creeps, hovering in the air inside its amniotic sac, unblinking, silent as a mausoleum. 

As the boards finished their complaining, an alpine cold descended. Fingers of ice stretched across the bedroom windows, searching for an escape. I glanced up at the camcorder. The lamp was glowing red. Good. It was finally working.

‘Come on then,’ I called out with more bravery than I felt. ‘Don’t be shy.’

*

Mr Hall stepped from under the porch and crunched across the gravelled courtyard as the white van juddered to a stop. He took a final drag of his cigarette, then sent it spiralling through the air like a drunken firefly.

His eyebrows rose at the sight of the man’s torn jeans and the dents and rust-filled scratches along the side of the van. He hoped the man was good for the rent money.

‘Mr Goodier?’ he asked, rolling the ‘r’ in a rough West Country brogue.

The man winced at Mr Hall’s crushing handshake. ‘Yes, but please, call me Phillip,’ he said, flexing his fingers to check they weren’t broken. He appraised the cottage with a knowing nod. ‘The place is in pretty good nick considering its age.’

‘Aye, thank ya sir,’ Mr Hall said, doffing his baseball cap. ‘The cottage ‘as been in me family for nigh on five centuries now. I s’pose it’ll be gone one of these days, though I’ll be gone long afore it. Having no kin to leave it to, I’ve willed it to the National Trust. But till that day arrives, I’ll keep looking after the old girl, best as I can.’

‘Have you never wanted to live here, Mr Hall?’ Philip asked. ‘Seems a shame for such a lovely old property to sit empty.’

‘I’m ‘ere most days, sir. When I don’t ‘ave guests, that is. Cleaning, fixing up, and the like. Till sundown at least. But ne’er after dark. I leave that to the likes of you, sir, begging your pardon.’ Feeling the need to change the subject, he added, ‘You said on the phone that you’re writing a book, sir? What sort of book, might I ask?’

‘I’m researching Britain's most haunted locations, though I could have some of them up in court under the Trade Description Act. Fewer spirits than an abolitionist's drinks cabinet, if you catch my drift.’ Mr Hall’s impassive features suggested his sense of humour had long since left the building. ‘I heard about this place on some obscure paranormal chat room,’ Philip continued. ‘Your cottage has become a bit of an urban legend, Mr Hall, like that video in the film The Ring. Most people clammed up when I started asking questions. Someone did mention that a paranormal group stayed here last month, but they wouldn’t give details. Is there anything you could tell me about them?’ 

Mr Hall looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. He just wanted to get his money, hand over the keys and get off home.

‘Can’t tell you much, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘Ceptin they didn’t last the night. They came banging on me door at three in the morning, wanting to give the keys back. The girl was the worst. She was blonde when I first saw ‘er, but when I seen ‘er agin, she was grey as chimney smoke, though I s’pose it could‘ve been the moonlight playing tricks. They didn’t want their money back, neither. They’d paid for a week, you see, but wanted away, quick as they could.’

‘Well, that sounds hopeful,’ Phillip said. ‘Maybe I’ll finally have something to write about.’ He fished the rent cheque from his wallet. ‘There you are, Mr Hall. That should cover my stay.’

Mr Hall quickly folded the cheque and stuffed it inside his top pocket. ‘Thank ya, sir,’ he said, handing Philip a silver key ring that held two keys. ‘The big-uns for the front door, and the smaller, brassy ones for the back.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hall. I’ve got your address and phone number, but I promise I won’t come knocking on your door in the wee hours.’ Philip’s winsome grin was met with another dose of Mr Hall’s trademark sullen demeanour.

‘Okay, sir,’ Mr Hall said, looking nervously to the west where the red ball of the Sun was dropping towards the horizon. ‘I’ll be getting along now, sir. Best of luck to ya.’ And with that, he hurried back to his car and drove off, sending a shower of gravel shooting from behind it as it screeched away.

‘Well, he wasn’t hanging about, was he?’ Philip said to the air. With a shrug, he opened up the cottage and started fetching his cases from the van.

*

I sensed something wasn’t right about this place the moment I ducked under the low front door into the entrance hall. The air felt . . . heavy. The other places I’d stayed in had yielded little more than some tame poltergeist activity that I could put down to ancient plumbing or draughty windows. I did have a stone thrown at me in the basement of that pub in Gloucestershire after I’d recorded a burst of creepy childish giggling, but I would need more if I wanted to attract a publisher. This place certainly felt like it had potential. 

Setting the cases down, I did a recce of the cottage to get my bearings. The low ceilings were criss-crossed by exposed oak beams that, being six feet tall, I would need to keep an eye out for. 

Downstairs was a homely sitting room, a study cum library, a cramped toilet and a modern, airy kitchen offering a scenic view of the garden as well as the surrounding countryside. I hoped that mowing the expansive lawn wasn’t something I was expected to do during my stay. I hated gardening. 

Upstairs, the lingering smell of paint suggested some recent DIY activity. There were three bedrooms off the narrow corridor with a spacious white tiled bathroom set at the far end. I chose the largest bedroom for myself as it was en suite. 

I found the book in one of the smaller bedrooms, just lying there on the bed. Hand-stitched in leather with stiff calfskin vellum pages, it had an age to it. The pages held some shocking images. The disturbingly lifelike pencil drawings were almost photographic in quality. 

On the first page, a man, a woman, and two young girls were being set upon by a pair of soldiers wielding daggers and swords. Dressed in Tudor clothing and kneeling before a large cross, I guessed they were a Catholic family; something best not to draw attention to in certain Tudor times. In the second drawing, an axe was poised above a priest's exposed neck, and in the third, a man was plunging a knife into the belly of a heavily pregnant woman. I flicked through the remaining dozen or so drawings, gaining the impression from the clothes and furnishings that each was set at a later date than the previous one. In the last, a grubby, 1960s hippy-styled girl was sticking a hypodermic needle into her scrawny, track-lined arm. 

After unpacking, I forced half a greasy microwaved lasagna down before retiring to bed, taking the book and a glass of red wine with me, but soon fell asleep with the bedside lamp still burning.

I was awoken by the sharp squealing of floorboards coming from the corridor. In my semi-awake state, I barely noticed the sudden silence or the door swinging open, but was brought fully awake by the sight of the Tudor family from the book walking solemnly into the room, their appearance perfectly matching that from the drawing. Each was holding a candle and appeared as solid as you and me. Glancing around, I could see that the layout of the room had changed, the furnishings now matching those from the drawing. The flickering candlelight falling on a hanging lantern clock showed the time at 1:28.

The family knelt in front of a large silver cross and began to pray just before two soldiers rushed in, slashing and stabbing at them with their swords and daggers, creating a pageant of bloody carnage that I was glad had played out in silence. The scene suddenly flickered like an old light bulb and then was gone. 

Struggling to draw breath, I wondered if what I had just witnessed was a dream, a Scroogean residue perhaps, born from a cocktail of wine, undigested lasagne and those disturbing images from the book. But in an instant everything changed again. Sunlight flooded in through the window. A heavily armoured soldier came through the door, dragging a priest behind him, with a second soldier holding an axe following behind. I watched in horror as the first soldier held the priest down while the second hacked his head off, though it took three swings of the axe. I was thankful when the scene flickered and vanished as before. Sweating now, I shook off my torpor and remembered why I was here. I grabbed the spirit box from beside the bed. ‘What are your names?’ I quickly asked.

The spirit box spat a slew of static into the air before a growling voice called out, ‘Get out. Get out, now.’

*

After a second night of even more ghostly - or should that be ghastly? - visitations, I was frustrated that I had garnered little evidence apart from that unsettlingly insistent voice telling me to get out. Someone or something did not want me here. My camcorder had refused to play ball, but after some tinkering it was finally ready to go. I glanced at the EMF meter on the bedside table. The needle was going batshit crazy. 

With the clock showing 1:28, the door swung fully open, except this time, there was no family, no priest, no creepy baby; just the faint padding of footsteps on carpet as something unfathomable entered the room.

It was clearly a demon. The horns, tail, and cloven hooves were a bit of a giveaway. But this was not the muscle-bound, fire-breathing demon of Hollywood fame. No. This was an almost comical green-skinned Mini-me version, three feet in height and skinnier than a bulimic supermodel. Trying not to laugh, I flinched as the camcorder above my head exploded.

‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ the demon said, hopping up onto the bed. ‘Happens all the time. Your crappy human electronics can’t handle my thaumic energies.’

I managed a vague ‘Er, um.’

The demon frowned. ‘Er, um? Is that part of this new human language? You know, the one where every other word is “like” or “stuff”? Bill must be turning in his grave.’ 

‘Bill?’ I ventured, surprised at how accepting I was of this crazy situation.

‘Yeah, you know. Shakespeare. Now there was a man who knew language. No ums or ers in his writing, though p’raps he did overdo the prithee’s a bit. And I’m still not entirely sure what nuncle means. But it was damn good writing nonetheless.’

I must have looked like a waxwork dummy sitting there silently gawping. I was having a conversation about Shakespeare with a demon, for Christ’s sake. I grabbed the spirit box and asked the demon its name.

‘That won’t work, either, mate,’ he said. I knew the demon was a he because he was naked. Use your imagination. ‘My thaumic energy drains batteries in a heartbeat. But anyway, you don’t need that stupid thing to talk to me, do you?’

Damn, I thought. Here I was with definitive proof of the paranormal, and all my devices had packed up. Thinking I had nothing to lose, except, perhaps, my soul, I asked him, ‘What are you doing here? Why do I keep seeing these poor people dying?’

‘Straight to the point,’ the demon said, producing a can of Coors from somewhere. ‘I like that,’ he added with a slurp and a belch. ‘Let me see now. I was created right after what you lot call The Big Bang, though Damp Squib would be a better name for it. No bangs in space, right? Anyway, there I was, a tiny particle of pure evil - the gunk you humans like to call dark matter - wondering what to do next. Well, to cut a long story short, I drifted through the Universe for fourteen billion years or so, pondering the nature of reality, as you do.’

‘Fourteen billion years?’ I interrupted. ‘That must’ve been boring.’

‘Au contraire,’ the demon replied. ‘Time doesn’t exist at the quantum level. For me, it was nothing more than a long lunch break.’ 

This was getting too surreal now, but I ploughed on regardless. ‘So, what happened next?’

The demon’s reply held more than a hint of nostalgia. ‘It was back in fifteen seventy-four, if memory serves. I floated into this very room just as a family of Catholics was being slaughtered. How lucky was that?’

‘Yeah, real lucky, I guess. Especially for them.’

‘You humans enjoy sarcasm almost as much as you do killing, don’t you? Anyway, I grabbed the opportunity, took their souls, and voilà, I was born. This house became a lens for evil after that, allowing me to grow my little collection, soul by soul. The head man’s quite impressed with me, so I’ve heard.’ 

Thinking about the book, I said, ‘You make it sound like stamp collecting. Anyway, was that you telling me to get out before?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied, giggling. ‘Did you like the voice? Wasn’t too much, was it? I don’t like you ghost hunters coming here and bothering me with Ouija boards and all that electronic crap. I must get Mr Hall to vet his tenants more carefully. You're braver than the last lot, though. They ran out of here screaming after only a few hours. But I still want you to leave. Now, please.’

‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m writing a book about places like this. People need to know the truth.’

The demon sighed. ‘Look, I just wanna be left alone with my collection of souls. Their energy keeps me going, you see.’

‘So why scare people away then?’ I asked. ‘You could have a huge collection by now.’

‘I don’t need the publicity, mate. Too many bodies would draw unwanted attention. Less is more, so to speak.’

‘Well, I’m going nowhere,’ I said. ‘And next time I’ll bring more people and more equipment with me.’

The demon shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, mate. I suppose my energy could do with a top-up. It’s been sixty years…’

*

Mr Hall called at the cottage a few days later, remembering that in his haste, he hadn’t mentioned needing to get the grass cut at the back. Receiving no reply to his knocking, he let himself in with his spare key, trying not to retch as the sledgehammer smell hit him. Stepping inside, he saw Phillips's body hanging lifeless from one of the high stair rafters. 

‘Oh, bugger,’ he said. ‘I thought you was done with your collecting, master.’

The demon wandered out from the kitchen, chewing on a chicken leg and holding a can of Coors. ‘So did I, Mr Hall,’ he said. ‘But he was gonna cause trouble, so he had to go. You’ve made a nice bit of dosh of late, though. Maybe you could use it to get the roof looked at. There are a few loose thatchings up there. Gets a bit parky in the winter when the winds blowing.’

‘Okay,’ Mr Hall replied. ‘But I’ll ‘ave to call the cops. I’ll say he was depressed when he turned up. They’ll call it suicide. Less paperwork.’

‘Good work, Mr Hall. Good work.’

*

‘Come and look at this book, Shane,’ said Gemma. ‘It’s got some right gnarly pictures ‘n stuff, like.’

Taking the book from Gemma, Shane started flicking through it. ‘This last one looks new compared to the ‘uvvers, like,’ he said. ‘The bloke’s threads are proper modern. I reckon we’re gonna get some pucker ghost stuff later, Gem. When it’s dark, like.’

Somewhere, a demon sighed and thought, Not again, Mr Hall.

Shane put the book down and pushed Gemma down onto the bed. ‘I vant to suck your blood, blah-blah-blah,’ he said, with his arms raised.

‘Oh, knock it off, Shane,’ Gemma said. Then, smiling coyly, she added, ‘Just come ‘ere and give me one.’

*

Well, that’s my tale, for what it’s worth. Staring out from the page at these two idiots' clumsy lovemaking, I can’t help but think the demon is right. People really can’t string a coherent sentence together anymore. Oh well, I’d give them something to talk about later when I wrapped the rope around my neck and plunged to my death again at 1:28 am. I do hope the unborn baby doesn’t make an appearance, though. Even now, it still gives me the creeps.