Guys and Heroes - Chapter 1

The house was called Clifeur. Why? Nobody knew. Or cared. It was also old. Older than anyone could remember. There were probably records of its construction somewhere, but who in this rustic village gave a damn? The house was there. That was it. A part of the landscape. It had been there when the villagers were children. It was there when they grew up and got married. It was there when their children were born and it was there when they died. Like the stars and the trees it was perennial.

     It stood less than about a quarter of a mile from the last house in this one-street hamlet. After nodding at Mrs O'Dea leaning on her half-door, you walked the dusty road bordered by high, unkempt hedgerows. A pleasant walk on a sunny and calm day. Don't try it in a strong wind however; your eyes will fill with fine dry clay, the devil to smart. A while along the route and the hedge was somewhat interrupted by a rusty iron gate. If you took the trouble to investigate you would find it supported by two massive stone pillars well-hidden by the foliage. Poke your walking stick, if you have one, into the thorny brambles adorning either post to find Clifeur chiselled into the rock just under the capping.

     If you were still curious you might even go further. In that case you could not have lived in the village for long. For the inhabitants of that place would have nothing to do with Clifeur. Nothing at all.

     There were many stories about the house and if, on a good evening in the local hostelry, the villagers were in the mood, the tales would be repeated into the night. For they were dark tales, some of them.

     "Its the devil himself that abides there now," opined the hostler, filling expertly another pint of Guinness.

     "Surely," agreed Jack, the retired butcher, whose son now struggled to update an ancient business in a losing battle to help his father's somewhat expensive drinking habits.

     "Tell us your yarn again, Dandy," Bill, the local confectioner addressed a dapper and retiring man sitting at the far end of the bar.

    "Sure you know it well already," replied Dandy.

    "Aw, come on," a chorus of the assembled personages.

    Dandy looked around. There was nothing for it. They would press him till he did as he was asked. He took a final swallow of his beer.

     "Fill her up again so," he said.

     A hush fell as the hostler began the ritual of a fresh beer. Dandy was a good man for the stories. Once you got him going. Tonight, for some reason, he seemed more than willing. He turned slightly on the barstool and gingerly picked his watch from his waistcoat pocket. A beautiful gold piece, attached with a dainty glittering chain. He consulted it and, apparently satisfied, returned it to its place. He surveyed his audience. They knew he would not speak till his drink was placed on the bar beside him.

     "There you are now, Dandy," said the bartender.

     Dandy picked up the well-headed beer and held it to the light. He replaced it on the counter, taking not a drop.

     "I had been delayed that day in the town yonder," he began, "Some unfinished business. It was quite dark by the time I got on my bike and commenced my journey home. It wasn't a bad evening either. Mild for the time of year, I recall."

     James, the butcher's son, smiled to himself. He could tell the same story himself word for word, he had heard it so often. Dandy changed not a syllable. Must have it off by heart. James did not harbour the superstitions of his father's generation, but he still wouldn't go near the old house for love or money.

     "There I was, cycling home after a satisfactory day's commerce. I took it easy too, being in no particular hurry. Sure I'd treated myself to a dinner at Kate's that lunchtime. Fine woman that. A man could do worse."

     Dandy paused at this point, as he always did in the telling of this particular story. The old grandmother clock hanging on the wall was the only inhabitant of that room who ventured to interrupt the silence.

     "Listen closely now," Dandy resumed his narrative, "There are things in this world and the next of which we have little knowledge. It was one of those things which was abroad that night. For I had hardly travelled a half a mile when I began to notice the change on the air. The wind had picked up and clouds had begun to scurry across the starry sky. It was not long before they filled it leaving me surrounded by the darkness. A black, black cloak. I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. I dismounted in order to place the dynamo against the wheel and would you believe it, the darned light wouldn't work. I pedalled like mad, but there wasn't a flicker out of it. It had been working fine the last time I had used it. And mark you this."

     His voice rose slightly, the better to emphasise the supernatural quality of the events he was relating.

     "It worked perfectly the next morning. For I checked it myself."

     The first climax of his story having been reached, Dandy considered the time ripe to wet his drying throat and accordingly downed a mouthful of beer.

     "Good stuff, Jimmy," he addressed the bartender.

     Jimmy nodded his head in acknowledgment.

     "Now where was I?" he sucked on his lips and cracked his fingers.

     Nobody needed to remind him.

     "Ah yes," he stabbed the air with a bent forefinger, "There I was, furiously cycling through the night. Only I knew the road like the back of my hand, I'd surely have ended up in the ditch."

     He raised his hand.

     "Then . . ."

     He looked over his right shoulder, reliving the incident. Seeing nothing, he looked over his left shoulder. He swung back suddenly, retaking centre stage.

     "Then," he repeated, "I heard it. A voice. Faint yet plaintiff, it gently pierced the night air. I shuddered. It was calling my name. Francis, it said. That's my real name: Francis."

     As if anybody in the room had been unaware of that fact.

     "Francis, the voice continued calling my name. It was getting louder too; getting nearer. I stopped and listened. But the voice stopped too. Must have been the wind, I thought to myself. So up on my bike again and away I went. Not for long though. The voice came back. Francis. I stopped once more. And listened. This time the voice didn't stop. It called again. Francis."

     He paused, one hand outstretched, his head cocked to one side.

     "Francis," he whispered slowly.

     He was echoed by the timepiece on the wall, obligingly counting away the seconds.

     "Francis," he whispered more slowly still, his deep brown eyes rolling in their sockets.

     He froze. Even the clock seemed to hold its breath for one magic moment. And resumed.

     "In the distance I could now make out a faint glimmer. Not the village. That was some distance away yet. Somebody else on the road perhaps. But the light didn't move. I waited. Still no sign of movement. Francis. My name was borne on the breeze once more. I started pedalling again. And now my motion along the road was causing the glow to move off to my left. So it wasn't on my route home. It had to be in one of the fields. And instantly I knew. Why hadn't I thought of it before? Clifeur."

     The name of the old house reverberated around the bar. Why did that sound always send a shiver tingling down along their collective spines? What fascination or dread did it hold? What power did it manage to weave over this small group of village inhabitants? And why? They never interfered with it. They left it alone. Perhaps that was what it didn't want. To be left to its own devices. Maybe it needed their attention. Maybe it needed company. To keep it amused in the long dead night of hell.

     "Someone was calling my name from the house," confirmed Dandy.

     Although he had told his tale many times before in this same spot to roughly the same gathering, he always produced the same effect. He couldn't describe it exactly, but it was as if everyone in the room were hearing their own names being called from beyond the grave. Like the old superstition when somebody walks over the site where your tomb is destined to be, you shiver. They shivered, not in the flesh, but somewhere in their souls.

     "Now, I'm not a brave man," he asserted, taking a gulp from his glass.

     "I'm not a coward either," he hastily added, "But normally I would never go anywhere near that evil place. However, that night, for some reason I simply cannot explain, I decided to investigate. It would have been better if I had jumped on my bicycle and cycled straight home."

    "But something drew me. I won't specifically say I had no choice, but it felt something like that. I came to a halt directly in front of the gates. Yes. Through the trees surrounding the house I could make out the light. It seemed high up. Probably on the second or third floor."

     "Leaving my bike by the side of the road, I approached the gates. I realised with alarm that they were open. Those rusty old gates which hadn't been unlocked in years I'm sure, were standing open to the world. What was going on here? I wish I had never found out."

     "And so I made my first and last entrance to that ill-fated place. Up the driveway towards the abode of the damned. Something crinkled beneath my feet. Dry leaves, but it wasn't Autumn. It was mid-Winter. Something else struck me as strange. All the trees on those lands are evergreens."

     "That they are," agreed James.

     Heads turned at the interruption. Dandy's listeners seldom said a word during his narratives. However, the only sign from the story teller was the almost unnoticeable raising of one eyebrow. But then again, James was a young man. Not of their generation. He could be forgiven his enthusiasm.

     Dandy took the opportunity to take another swig. He smacked his glass back on the bar and drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

     "I trod that avenue with my heart beating fast within my chest. Suddenly, something scudded across my path. I jumped, I can tell you. But I presumed it to be some small animal and continued my journey."

     "At last I turned the final bend and came out into a clearing. Even though it was pitch black, and the only light was the one I'd seen from the road, illuminating the attic window on the right, I could see the house plainly. As if I had some strange gift of night sight. It was weighed down with ivy, stretching up and over the lip of the roof. Some of the windows were completely covered with the stuff. In fact, I think they were all covered except for the attic. I stared up at it in fascination. The voice hadn't sounded since I had entered the grounds either."

     "There was gravel beneath my feet now and I crunched my way across to the front door. I had no idea of what I was going to do once I got there. I suppose I had some vague notion of knocking on some pretext or other. Anyhow, when I got to the steps leading up to the entrance I got another fright. For I had no sooner put my foot on the first step than the bloody door creaked open. I leapt back, slipped and nearly fell over. I managed to right myself, however, and looked up. Excuses were furiously running through my head to explain my presence to the person I expected to be standing there. But there was nobody."

     "I called out a tentative greeting. There was no reply. 'Is there anybody there?' I said. Still no reply. This was most peculiar and not a little scary. But once inside a situation and it is not so easy to get out. Especially if you have a natural curiosity. Besides I had come so far and was carefully keeping all the tales I had been told about the place out of mind. I blessed myself just in case though and began my ascent of the steps again."

     Now Dandy leaned forward, the better to impress his audience.

     "First step," he held up his crooked forefinger, "No change."

     "Second step," his finger was joined by another, "And nothing happened."

     "Third step," his voice grew louder and a touch raspier.

     He raised his hand higher with three fingers elevated. He surveyed their expectant faces and inwardly smiled. He always made sure he got as much mileage as possible from this story.

     "Only three more to go," he continued, "And I don't mind telling you that my heart beat faster with each level."

     "Four."

     "Five," he practically roared, his hand now open and displaying all five digits.

     Although he would never had admitted it, James started ever so slightly when Dandy hollered out the penultimate number. He quickly looked around to see if any of the company had noticed. But they were all too intent on Dandy and his adventures. He sighed gently with relief and prepared himself for any more of the storyteller's tastes for drama.

     "Still the door lay open before me and no living thing in sight," Dandy lowered his voice, "I couldn't as yet see much inside the house. Too murky. And at last I stood on the sixth and final step. I moved to the entrance and looked in. Blackness was all. I couldn't make out a thing. I entered and took a few paces inside. I strained my eyes and all of a sudden the darkness seemed to lift."

     "Through a hazy gloom I could make out the rough shape of the great hall I was in. It was circular with a stairway leading upwards from its centre. There were doors on either side leading to God-knows-where. The place was sort of clammy. A hot dampness lay on the atmosphere. I sniffed the air and felt its chilly warmth reach down and settle on my lungs. Horrible sensation."

     And he turned to his drink as if for consolation.

     "I felt drawn by the magnificent staircase and found myself slowly ascending. I touched the balustrade and withdrew my hand in disgust. It seemed to be thickly coated with a slimy fungus. I reached the landing and paused. It ran from the front to the back of the house with, once again, doorways at intervals along its length except for a break midway where, on both sides, a small narrow stairway led further upwards into the loftier heights of the house. A faint suspicion of a glimmer danced on one of these staircases. I was getting closer to the source of the light I had first seen from the road outside. I was becoming more anxious now but still I went on. Human curiosity in the unwise is a strange and pitiful thing. I'm older now of course and my wisdom has increased over the years, but it took a quantum leap after that night."

     Dandy was a great man for the fancy words, but they added to the telling. To read them does them an injustice. But to hear the man speak them - now there's a thing. Dandy could weave his own spell over his expressions. When he paused now, you would hear a pin drop provided, naturally, the aforementioned object did not allow its meeting with the ground to coincide with a tick from the ever present clock, who nodded away unmoved.

     "I climbed those steps which led me in a gently circular motion to the door at their head, from under whose imposing frame the illumination oozed. I stood there contemplating my folly. Behind that piece of worked wood lay the answer to my presence in that abode. What had the light in that room to do with the voice which so clearly had called my name? Why had I not heard it since entering the grounds? Why did it want me? Had I passed by chance along that route that evening or was it pre-ordained? But more pressing still: what was behind that infernal door?"

     The questions having been put, Dandy made good use of this opportune moment to take a rest and finish his beer. He lay the newly-emptied glass on the counter and indicated with a nod of his head that a refill would be in order. Accordingly the bartender obliged while the clock ticked on.

     "Then, without a word of warning, the door slowly began to open. A slit of light at first along its leading edge from floor to lintel, gradually getting broader and broader till finally I was bathed in its other-worldly glow. I peered in, trying to steady my shaking hands. The room appeared empty. Dusty floorboards running from one end to the other. Dust that had not been disturbed by anything living for God-knows-how-long. I stood just outside that entrance for a long time. I didn't want to go any further, yet I was unable to turn back. I felt myself in a kind of limbo."

     "Now, another thing which proves that I wasn't dreaming. I put my hand in my pocket to retrieve my mother's rosary beads, which I had carried unfailingly with me every day since she had died, God rest her. They were not there. This really unnerved me, for I had thought at this point to enlist through prayer some help from the man above. But the beads had vanished. I couldn't have lost them. I never loose things. Ever. I searched through my other pockets with the same negative result. I can tell you friends, that the next day I found those beads in the very pocket I had first unsuccessfully searched the night before."

    "Suddenly my frantic quest was interrupted by the return of the voice. Francis, it said, welcome to my house. Such a terror fell over me at its sound. I struggled to utter the name of our saviour but could not. My knees went weak and I thought I was going to collapse on the floor. But I managed to stay upright. And the voice spoke again. Francis, please enter. God no, I thought, and my legs started to carry me forward. My treacherous legs brought me into that cursed room."

     "Finally, I stood in its centre. I looked back towards the exit to see my single set of footprints mocking me in the grime. There was my one means of escape from this place and I could do nothing to avail of it. The door suddenly slammed shut with a terrible bang. I tried to make the sign of the cross and was powerless to do so. I stared at the closed door. It had a sort of finality about it. I felt like a soul who has crossed the boundary into hell, knowing he will never leave that nether abode."

     "There was another reason why I kept my gaze in that direction. I did not want to look to my left for I sensed the presence of something there. Something I wasn't too sure my mind could allow me to see without snapping and instantly converting me into a raving madman. But sure I was without the means to prevent the inevitable. Inexorably my head turned. I struggled to close my eyes but they were locked open. I desperately attempted to utter a prayer, but my lips were solidly glued together. I found I couldn't even pray mentally. My fear increased, its clawing fingers painfully plucking at every nerve in my body, till I thought I must explode with the tension wracking my frail frame. And I gazed on the owner of the voice."

     Dandy raised his fresh pint to his lips and took a long and apparently satisfying draught.

     "How can I describe my emotions on viewing the little old man, sitting in a wheelchair, before me? A mixture of intense, utter relief and cold sweat. Relief that he was not the monster my mind was half-expecting. Cold sweat because the thing before me, albeit in human guise, was not of this world. In all respects bar three, he looked like many an old guy. Balding with white hair, a weather-beaten face, no teeth, knarled hands and thin as a rake. But this description fades in comparison with his most striking characteristics. Three, as I mentioned before. His skin colour was the palest I'd ever seen on a person. To say he was the pallor of death is an understatement. In fact he looked positively bleached. The second thing was his lips. They were unbelievably red. Blood red, you'd expect me to say. But no. They were different. More like the deep red of a dying fire, if you can get my meaning. However, it was in his eyes that I was confronted with a terrible evil. They were blazing bright in his head. I was sure they pierced my very being and were peering into my immortal soul."

     "We stared at each other, the old man and I. He sat in his chair, immobile. I stood in front of him, waiting. I was beyond fear now. It was like confronting something you were afraid of as a kid and now, as an adult, you know you've got to face up to it. Like picking up a spider for the first time. Once you've done it, you can relax somewhat although it may still revolt you. I faced this ancient fellow. God knows, I hadn't wanted to. And I waited. For his had to be the next move."

     "Francis, he said to me, you must not be afraid of an old man. I am simply the owner of this house. I have lived here for a long time. A very long time. Why does nobody come to visit me? Riddle me that, Francis."

     "I continued to stare at him. I did not know what to reply. Indeed, his words struck me as very strange. I knew nobody lived in that place. At least nobody made of flesh and blood. In fact, I could never remember a time when anybody did inhabit the house. Yes, and my father before me had never known of any occupant."

     "He continued to speak. He told me that enemies of his had spread vicious and slanderous stories about his home and so it was shunned. No one came near. And the tales grew in stature, taking on a supernatural hue. Repeated tellings embellished them and blew them up out of all proportion."

     "As I stood there, listening to the ghoul speak, I realised I was beginning to feel drowsy. His awful eyes appeared to be getting bigger. I felt my eyelids start to droop. I don't know what it was, but something in the back of my mind alerted me to the situation that I was being slowly mesmerized. I put it down to my mother's prayers, God rest her poor soul. She was up there, looking after her only child. And I suddenly knew, come what may, I had to get out of that room."

     "But how? The door was shut. Would I be able to get to it, open it and escape? The only other way out was through the window. However, that would lead to my certain death on the ground below. A more athletic person might be able to make use of the branches of the creeper outside and clamour down safely, but as you know, I am not exactly your healthiest specimen. It had to be a dash to the door."

     "I steeled myself and I saw by the look on his face that he was aware of my intentions. His visage took on a new look. A mask of hate and suddenly I caught the briefest glimpse of the horror's true shape. Or perhaps it was just the most awful picture my own mind could comprehend. But I'll never forget that vision. It was like a snake rearing to strike. Its eyes blazed on, not changing. But its mouth was open so incredibly wide that its slimy throat was almost to the front. Its fangs glistened with blood, while its repugnant tongue flickered in and out."

     "Then the old man re-appeared. But I needed no second telling. As if the wings of Mercury had touched my ankles, I sprinted for the door. Miraculously, I reached it and got my hands around the handle. I turned and pulled. The door wouldn't open. I pulled harder, sweat breaking on my brow and dripping down into my eyes, blurring my vision. I heard a chuckle from the thing behind and it caused my blood to run cold. I tugged on the damn door with all my strength. And still it wouldn't open. The chortle sounded again. My whole body abruptly felt damp as my terror condensed in sweat on my skin. In a last desperate effort, I pulled on the door one more time. I managed to scream. A loud, terrible plea to heaven. And it was answered. The door was suddenly released and I stumbled out. I lost my footing and fell down the stairs. Tumbling over and over, I landed at their bottom. I leapt up as if all the demons in hell were after me, which no doubt at least one of them was. I dashed to the top of the main banisters and hurled my aching and terrified body down. This time I was able to stay upright. I crash-landed in the hall and fled through the main entrance, out into the night. I didn't stop there. I ran as fast as I could down the driveway I had first traversed earlier on my way to the house. My faithful bike was awaiting me where I had left it. Up on it and away."

     "I didn't stop till I had reached my cottage in the village. I dismounted and at last felt safe, shielded within the welcoming arms of the familiar surrounds of my birthplace."

     Having said thus, Dandy turned back toward the bar, exercising his elbow to finish off his drink as a long and grand finale to his story. He knew well most of his listeners didn't fully believe him. Still he got a kick out of telling it and he knew it was true. It had happened to him. Anyway, none of them would go near the house. Of course, they all had their different tales to tell and Dandy himself doubted some of them. But at the end of the day, he had the sure knowledge of what had occurred to him and that was enough. He would never darken that satanic place again.

"My Mam says I'm not supposed to go in there," said Jamie, "She says there is something dangerous in that house."

     "And do you believe everything that grownups tell you?" demanded Bob indignantly.

     "Well...," began Jamie, not quite knowing how to handle this irreverent disregard for the wisdom of his parents.

     "There is nothing to fear," Mary relieved him of the need to defend himself, "They're just superstitions. It is supposed to be haunted, that's all."

     "And we're not afraid of any ghosts, are we?" added Pat.

     The four friends looked at the well-rusted gates. All had been warned to varying degrees by their respective fathers or mothers to stay away from Clifeur. That was one property they were not to trespass on. Made it all the more exciting of course. And up to now none of them had ever broken that commandment. But it was a bright warm day bang in the middle of their summer holidays and it felt good to be alive. The countryside was loud with the industrious humming of insects. Stern admonishments from parents seemed a million miles away.

     They had met in what they called their camp that morning after breakfast. This was situated in the old disused graveyard at the back of the village church. It was their fabulous secret place and they had spent a lot of time constructing it. As far as they knew, nobody else suspected its existence. Indeed, it was not easy to find. First you had to go around to the back of the church and through a well-concealed hole in the dense hedging there. Then you found yourself amongst tombstones peeping up above the heavy undergrowth and slanting in all sorts of crazy directions, as if some giant had smashed his fist down among them in a petulant frenzy. A newer and bigger graveyard had been built years back about a half mile beyond the village. It was possible nobody knew who the hell lay buried here anymore. Certainly the kids didn't care. To them it was a haven left to themselves and the indigent wildlife. They had dug a pit about six feet square and eight feet deep. They had lined the sides with stones from the quarry and for a roof they had found some discarded rafters over which they had laid a bed of old sacking. On top of this they had spread the sods carefully preserved from their initial digging. A small hatch by which they could come and go completed their camp.

     Then there was their talisman, as they liked to refer to it. While excavating their camp they had dug a little too close to one of the graves. Pat was wielding his father's pickaxe and slammed it into a particularly stubborn piece of rocky earth protruding from one of the sides. The soil yielded and poured forth not only rocks and clay, but something else as well.

     "Hey," he roared with great excitement, "Look what I've found."

     He tossed the pick aside and stooped to retrieve his prize. The others gathered round. He carefully brushed away the clinging soil to reveal a human skull. He held it aloft. Like the skull he was grinning from ear to ear.

     "Oh," ejaculated Mary.

     "I'd throw it away," said Bob who was simply green with envy that he hadn't found it, "It'll only bring you bad luck."

     "Shouldn't we tell somebody?" asked Jamie.

     "We'll tell no one," declared Pat, "And I won't throw it away. That would be stupid."

     He glared at Bob who shrugged his shoulders.

     "What are we going to do with it so?" Mary put the question to Pat.

     "We'll bury it in front of the camp," Pat answered thoughtfully, "It will be our good luck charm."

     "Our talisman," said Mary, and hence it was called.

     That morning, when they met, was like any other morning of their holidays. Jamie, as usual, was the last to arrive. He was breathless as they knew he would be. He pulled the hatch down after him and sat in his appointed place. The first topic to be discussed that day, as on any other, was what they were going to do. The weather was fine and sunny and promised to stay that way. The usual arguments weaved their way back and forth. If one of them suggested indulging in any particular activity or going to a specific place, another would doubtless disagree. The friendly haggle went on for about five or ten minutes before it was decided that they should go for a long ramble along the Old Boar road. This route led them to the gates of Clifeur, before which they now found themselves.

     "Come on," said Pat, trying to open the gate lever and failing.

     "We'll climb over," he added and did just that.

     The others quickly followed and the four friends stood on the hallowed grounds of Clifeur.

     The path leading away from the gates was well overgrown and looked remarkably uninviting. The trees on either side were gnarled and old, their trunks dusty and ungroomed. The years alone with the dead had caused them to lose interest in their appearance. Who came to admire them now?          

     "Its awfully quiet," commented Mary.

     They listened.

     "Yeah," agreed Jamie, "You're right."

     "Woods are always silent," asserted Pat, "Come on. We're wasting time."

     "What are we going to do?" asked Jamie.

     "We'll have a look at the house," Bob answered, "Maybe we'll be able to get in and explore."

     "Its probably an old ruin anyway," said Pat, "There mightn't be much left standing."

     "We won't find out much hanging around here and arguing about it," said Mary.

     They set off up the untrodden pathway. Mary shivered. It was cool in here, but she put it down to the shade afforded by the great firs. She didn't want to consider any other possibilities. Jamie felt it too and suddenly wanted to go back, but said nothing as he didn't want his friends to think he was a cowardy custard. Especially Mary. He stole a glance at her. She was lovely. He dreamed about her every night before falling off to sleep. He imagined them living together in some little cottage and sometimes he loved her so much he wanted to hold her naked with his arms and legs wrapped around her. He wanted to do something else with her but in his pre-adolescence didn't know what. He had not yet left the world of childhood and innocence.

     They came to the bend in the avenue leading them into full view of the old house. They stopped in their tracks to gaze on it.

     Clifeur stood in the middle of its clearing: grand, majestic almost; like some great monarch, head of all it surveyed. Clothed in magnificent ivy, crowned with a gargoyle packed parapet surrounding its roof.

     "God," whispered Mary.

     "Its big," added Jamie.

     "Looks in good condition," Bob ventured, "I wonder if we'll be able to get inside."

     Pat said nothing but approached the steps leading to the front entrance. He climbed them slowly. The others meekly followed. He got to the door and pushed.

     "Its locked," he called to them.

     "Knock," laughed Bob, "Give it a belt with that big knocker."

     "Don't," said Jamie, the fear crossing his heart.

     "Why not?" Bob continued laughing, "We could get a chase from the owner."

     Bob had not yet begun his ascent of the steps - just in case.

     "Nobody lives here," said Pat and gave the door a resounding blow with its ornate and heavy knocker.

     "Don't," squealed Jamie halfway up the steps.

      The rest of them froze, waiting. For what? Pat was right. There was no one in the house. Hadn't been for years. Look at the path. When was there someone up that way last? Look at the ivy-covered windows. It would be difficult to see out of those. Must make the place very dark inside.

     Nothing came to answer the summons. They relaxed and suddenly Bob became very brave, clamouring up the steps and adding another crashing call to the door.

     "How are we going to get in?" he said.

     Jamie lost his fear of letting them know his feelings.

     "I want to get out of here," he said, and without waiting for a reply jumped down from his step and marched across the open space back to the woods.

     "Jamie," called Mary, "Come back."

     If it had been any of the others who had cried out he would have ignored them. But he couldn't ignore the secret love of his life. He turned around and looked at her. She smiled at him.

     "There's nothing to be afraid of," she said gently, "Let's explore. It will be fun."

     "I'm not afraid," he lied indignantly, and reluctantly rejoined them.

     "We're not going to get through this door," said Pat, putting his weight against it.

     "There might be some windows open," suggested Mary.

     "The ones at the front of the house are very high," said Jamie.

     "Someone can climb up the ivy," said Bob, not volunteering himself.

    They went back down the steps and looked at the first window to the right of the main entrance. It was at least ten feet from the ground.

     "No point trying to scale up to that," said Jamie, "I can see bars on it."

     "Well, climb to the next storey," said Bob.

     "No, don't," Mary was strong with her negative, "That would be too dangerous. There's got to be some other way."

     "Show me! Show me!" mocked Bob.

     "I don't mind giving it a go," offered Pat, ignoring Bob's taunt.

     But Mary shook her head vigorously and walked to the side of the house.

     "Look," she shouted, "There's a dip in the ground here. And there are basement windows."

     The others ran to join her. She had already scrambled down the embankment, waist deep in grass and weeds. She had pulled the growth away from the middle of the casement and was holding her hands against the grubby pane. She could see nothing inside.

     "Are there bars?" asked Pat excitedly, crashing down by her side.

     "Yes," she replied, "But one of them is missing."

     "Let's see," he said, elbowing his way in.

     "Hey, be careful," she pushed him back, "You'll get your turn."

     She peered in again trying to adjust her eyes to see through the grime and the darkness within. It was no good. The house wasn't going to reveal any of its enigmas that easily. She stood back.

     "Now, you have a look."

     Pat eagerly and fruitlessly repeated her exercise.

     "I can't see anything," he stated the obvious.

     "I know," she smiled.

     The other two were now pushing forward to have a look.

     "Let's break the window," said Bob, "We can easily squeeze between the bars."

     "I don't think we should do that," said Jamie.

     "But nobody owns the place," moaned Bob, "Nobody cares about it."

     "We should try and find a way in without doing any damage first," said Pat.

     "I agree," concurred Mary.

     "Me too."

     "Assholes," muttered Bob.

     "There's no need for that," said Mary.

     "You should take a democratic vote with grace," chided Jamie.

     "Oh shut up, you."

     Bob turned away and climbed back up to ground level. He marched off toward the back of the house.

     "Where are you going?"

     The only reply was a shaking fist.

     "Let him go," said Pat, "He's only a baby."

     They pushed their way through the high grass to the next window. This one had all its bars in place. Onward again and they came to a small door practically concealed with brambles.

     "Strange looking," commented Mary.

     And indeed it was.

     "It looks more like a door for a very small person," said Jamie, "Its only up to my chest."

     "Or maybe a dog," Mary suggested.

     "It doesn't matter," Pat could hardly contain himself, "Its open."

     He pushed at it and grudgingly it moved aside.

     "Oh," gasped Mary, "The smell."

     "Yeah," agreed Pat, "Its pretty shitty."

     "Are we going into that?" asked Jamie, the stink causing him to retch.

     "We've come this far," said Pat, "I'm going in anyway."

     "I'm coming with you," said Mary.

     She turned and looked at Jamie.

     "Okay," said Jamie, hoping he wasn't about to vomit.

     Pat went down on his hunkers and shuffled his way through. Once inside he could stand up. He took a few paces forward.

     "What do you see?" called Jamie.

     "Nothing yet," he shouted and his voice sounded hollow within the chamber in which he now found himself.

     It unnerved him slightly and he was glad to see Mary coming through the entrance. She moved to his side, taking his arm. She looked around and gradually their eyes adapted to the dimness within. Jamie came last, holding his nose.

     "You get used to the stench," Pat told him.

     Now Jamie stood beside them and to his pleasure Mary also linked his arm. They surveyed their surroundings.

     "I think its a cellar of some sort," Pat broke the silence, "And there are stairs over there."

     He pointed to a solid-looking wooden set of rungs leading upwards into the gloom. Straining their eyes a little, they could make out a door at their head.

     "Obvious which direction we're going to go," stated Mary.

     She withdrew her arms and walked gingerly to the foot of the steps. She mounted two of them and turned her head around.

     "Aren't you coming?"

     "Yes," said Pat and followed her.

     "I think I see the source of the smell," said Jamie.

     "Where?" they echoed.

     "Look over there," he pointed at the far corner.

     They could just about make out a small humped furry shape.

     "Its a dead dog or cat," confirmed Jamie, "Its rotting."

     "Ugh," grimaced Mary and continued up the stairs.

     The two boys pursued her. Thankfully the door from the cellar to the house was unlocked.

     "Its smells better here," said Mary coming out into a sort of kitchen.

     At least it looked like that, with presses and cupboards lining the walls, albeit some without doors and some with doors hanging on for dear life. Pat and Jamie tumbled through into the kitchen type room.

     "Oh, that's better," Jamie took a deep breath.

     Mary crossed the large room and emerged through its entrance into the large hall. She stood facing the front portal, openings to other rooms on her left and the majesty of the sweeping main stairway to her right.

     "It must have looked lovely once," she murmured.

     Her imagination took off into the past. She saw beautifully dressed women and fine handsome men filling the hallway and stairs. There was a tremendous buzz of excitement and jollity amongst them. This was a ball in honour of some person or event and everybody who was anybody was in attendance. From above her came the lilting sounds of a small orchestra while servants, conspicuous by their dark but smart outfits, flitted to and fro between the merrymakers. Abruptly the musicians stopped playing. A small gong sounded, ringing through and above the level of people noise. Nobody appeared to have given it any heed, but a gradual shift towards and up the huge staircase became noticeable. Mary realised they were being summoned to a meal and suddenly she felt hungry. The ghosts of bygone years faded and were replaced by the dust-laden emptiness of reality.

     Mary blinked and was startled by a hand shaking her gently by the shoulder. It was Pat.

     "Hey," he was saying, "You okay?"

     "Yes," she turned to him, smiling and slightly puzzled, "Why?"

     "Well, you were standing dead still with a dazed look on your face."

     Your very pretty face, thought Jamie.

     "Oh," she understood, "I was day-dreaming."

    But she felt her imagination had been a little bit too vivid to be explained away so easily. Still she supposed it couldn't really have been anything else, could it? Anyway, she wasn't going to mention it. She didn't want them to think her crazy.

     They walked the passage between the wall and banister.

     "The place is filthy," said Jamie.

     "Sure is," agreed Pat, "I wouldn't like the job of cleaning it."

     "You could transform it back into a beautiful house," said Mary.

     "You go ahead if you want," joked Pat, "You can leave me out of it."

     "You're just bone lazy," she jabbed her finger under his arm.

     He jumped away from her.

     "You're tickling me," he shouted.

     She lunged playfully at him. He leapt out of her reach and the chase was on. Dust and dirt flew in all directions as the children forgot their surroundings and tore after each other. Up to the front door, back to the bottom of the stairs, around the sides, effectively obliterating the disturbances left by Dandy a few years back.

     As quickly as it had begun, the game ended. They laughed heartily and breathlessly and sat down together on the first rung of the flight of stairs.

     Gradually the dust settled and with it an eerie silence which became more apparent as their respiratory functions returned to normal.

     "It’s sort of creepy in here," Jamie observed.

     "Oh bullshit," said Mary, jumping up, "What are we sitting around for? Come on. Let's explore upstairs."

     "I wonder where Bob got himself to," said Pat, catching up with Mary.

     "Hey, wait for me," shouted Jamie, suddenly realising he sat alone.

     "Hurry then," laughed Mary.

     "I said I wonder where Bob is," repeated Pat.

     "Probably went home in a sulk," said Mary, "Don't let's mind about him."

     They reached the landing. Pat leaned over the banister and looked down into the hall.

     "Its quite a drop."

     "What's that?" said Jamie abruptly.

     "What's what?" Mary glanced at him.

     "I thought I heard a noise," he replied meekly.

     "Its just your fertile imagination running amok," Pat scratched his behind absentmindedly, yet listening to see if there were any sounds.

     "I didn't hear anything," said Mary.

     "Hush," ordered Pat.

     Mary hushed. And listened. A faint and low mumble touched the strained level of their hearing.

     "There," beamed Jamie, "I told you so."

     But his triumph at being proved right was instantly dissipated by the dawning of the meaning behind his observation. If there was a noise in the house, something had to be causing that noise. What was that something?

     Every Saturday night during their holidays the four companions went off to the local parish hall where Mr Connor, Mary's father the grocery store owner, showed a film. Sometimes it was a cowboy picture, sometimes a detective. It cost about half of their weekly pocket money, but was usually well worth it. They would emerge into the gathering evening, each with their heads filled with Hopalong Cassidy or Roy Rodgers or Sexton Blake. Whoever the particular hero that night happened to be. Jamie remembered vividly the day they saw Frankenstein. He remembered the bit of a to-do among the villagers the next day when the more sedate amongst them realised what the kids had been allowed to view. A man-made monster! Not suitable for youngsters at all. Poor old Mr Connor hadn't known what the film was about when he hired it from the distributors. He thought it would be a picture about outer space, he had said in his defence. Anyway, Jamie went to see Frankenstein along with the others. He had left in tears halfway through and ran all the way home. He didn't sleep properly for days afterwards.

     Now, standing on the landing of this old ghost-ridden abode, flanked on either side by his two friends, the memory of that Frankenstein monster came back in force. Yes, his frightened mind agreed with him, this house where you are now, is exactly the same as the one in the film. It had a staircase like this one. It had a dungeon in the basement, but of course you haven't found that yet, have you. Why are you going upwards, Jamie? Go down. Down into the bowels of this beautiful terror-filled place. He's down there, Jamie. He's waiting for you. He needs you to switch him on. He needs the massive voltage to give life to his ungainly limbs. To put sparkle into his horrible eyes. He needs your help, Jamie.

     "I'm getting out of here," Jamie startled his mates.

    "What?" hollered Pat, just managing to catch hold of Jamie's arm as he took off like a scared rabbit.

     "Leave me go," he yelled, his progress momentarily halted.

     Pat solidified his grip. Jamie lunged forward in an effort to break away. They fell together on the floor, wrestling each other. Pat, however, soon had Jamie pinned on his back. He sat on his stomach, holding his arms above his head to the floor. Jamie knew any further resistance would be useless. He began to sob.

   "Jamie," said Mary, her gentle voice got through his tears, "What's the matter?"

     She knelt on the floor beside him.

     "He's going fucking crazy, that's what," growled Pat.

     "Don't you use that f-word," shouted Jamie, forgetting his predicament for a second.

     "I'll use whatever word I damn well please," retorted Pat angrily.

     "Stop it, both of you," Mary's voice was soft, but its tone held authority.

    "Now, get up off him," she looked at Pat, who obeyed with only a slight hint of hesitation.  

     Jamie sat up and grasped his stomach.

     "You hurt me," he groaned.

     Pat's eyes flashed defiance, then catching Mary's glance, softened.

     "I'm sorry," he said simply.

     "Now," said Mary, order having been restored somewhat, "Tell me what made you suddenly so afraid. Was it the faint sounds?"

     Jamie stared at the floor in concentration, as if by meditating long enough the question would go away. But he knew that wouldn't happen. He would have to tell them that underneath this brave exterior, he was petrified. He wanted to cry, like the evening he had run home from the horror on the celluloid screen. He felt the tears brimming and made an extra special effort to conceal and cancel them. And he felt the wave of necessity to cry, which was trying to crest, dissipate and waste its energy somewhere inside him. It was replaced by the nerve-tingling strength to face his fears and tell his friends how he felt. Indeed to almost boast that he was afraid. It wasn't such a bad word. Afraid. Yes, I'm afraid. Have you never felt fear? If you are human, then fear is a natural response to the unknown. Why should he disguise his humanness? Stand up and shake your fist and admit that you are afraid.

     So Jamie looked Mary in the eye and told her.

     "I'm scared."

     Then he turned to Pat and repeated it.

     "I'm scared, Pat."

     "I'm scared too," it was Mary.

     He turned back to her and her serious pretty face as she laid her cards of membership to the human race on the metaphorical table.

     "We're all frightened, Jamie," she continued, putting her hand on his shoulder, "Even though we try and hide it."

     And Jamie felt such a burst of love within his small heart for her. He had exposed his soul to her and she had returned the compliment.

     "But just because I'm afraid isn't going to stop me doing what I want to do," she stressed, "I want to see all of this place. It is fascinating. Anyway, my rational mind tells me that there is nothing here that can harm us, so I know my fear is only a sort of protection. It makes my blood race, giving me the excitement and will to go on. It just pumps adrenalin through me."

     "What's adrenalin?" asked Pat.

     Before Mary could answer, the indistinct mumble made itself heard anew, only this time it was louder.

     "There it is again," whispered Jamie, "Did you hear it?"

     "Yes, I heard it," answered Pat slowly.

     "Its coming from above us," said Mary, "But it has to be the wind or something like that. There are probably holes in the roof or it comes whistling down the chimneys."

     "It doesn't sound like that at all," Pat disagreed with her, "Its more like somebody talking. Its like when you're trying to hear what your Mam and Dad are talking about at night in their room. All you can hear is the murmur of their voices. You can't make out the words unless they start yelling at each other."

     Mary smiled. Her folks were always shouting at one another. She knew what Pat was speaking about although she could distinguish what her own dears were saying quite easily. Although they didn't know it, Mary's parents had given their daughter a very liberal education in areas they would have been extremely embarrassed to discuss with her face to face.

     "What are we going to do?" Jamie was pulling her arm and she forgot about her mother's headaches and her father's constant demands.

     "Investigate," she said emphatically.

     Jamie's face dropped.

     "Don't worry," Mary continued, "There's got to be a good reason for the noises. You'll see."

     Pat was already walking along the landing and found the stairs leading ever upward.

     "Here," he called and waited till his friends had joined him before cautiously tackling them.

     They rounded the bend and came face to face with the door at the top. They stopped outside it and listened.

     At first the door teased them, glorying in the silence it shielded. It dared them to step forward and open it. But they resisted the temptation to rush headlong. They could wait a little.

    When the mumbling recommenced it send a terrifying chill coursing through their veins, turning their blood to liquid ice.

     "Jesus," muttered Pat, his face turning white.

     Jamie fought the urge to run and stayed where he was. Even brave Mary looked shook. Time stood still as they stared in numbed horror at the door. Whatever was behind it sure as hell wasn't the wind or anything like it. There was something alive behind that door. Or at least capable of life-like sounds.

     The time slice broke and things began to move again. Mary put her hand on the doorknob. She paused and then turned it. Jamie grabbed Pat's arm and they both watched as she opened the fateful portal.

     It swung easily into the room and came to rest against the wall. The noises ceased and were replaced by a silence which could only be described as heavy. Heavy with what? In the films the cowboy hero is about to be scalped by the wild, wild Indian. Everyone is on the edge of their seat with suspense. How can their ace escape this time? It has to be certain death. There is no way out. The axe is poised to strike. Every nerve in the collective body of the audience is stretched to the limit. The Indian grins fiendishly. The brave cowboy prepares to meet his maker. And then. And only then. The faint strains of the cavalry bugle. The Indian is startled and distracted for the tiniest fraction of a second from his intent. It is enough. The cowboy grabs his chance and smacks the redman full on the chin, knocking him over. The axe goes flying. The cinema erupts in a burst of cheering. The suspense is broken. Hundreds of kiddie bums relinquish en masse the edges and occupy the full seat again. That's what the silence was heavy with. Only this time it wasn't a picture. This time it was for real and there wasn't any scriptwriter around to write their saving. They were on their own.

     They looked at the dust on the floorboards stretching across to the window and saw the footprints which stopped in the middle of the room. Who had made them? It couldn't be whatever was in the room now, and they knew there was something in there, unless it had leapt from the point where the marks stopped to wherever it was at present lurking. Of course, there could be another way in. Couldn't there?

     Mary was the first to venture in. She gingerly picked her steps and entered. She walked with purpose, following the tracks already laid down. She stopped a few feet from where they ended. She turned to her left and saw nothing untoward. Then she looked to her right.

     Pat and Jamie watched her. They admired her pluck and felt a little ashamed that they remained outside. They watched as the blood drained from her face. They watched as her hand went involuntarily to her mouth. They watched as her eyes bulged in sheer horror and the tears burst out and flooded down her cheeks. They listened as she screamed.