Beneath the Dark

Copyright © Ian Backhouse (2022)

The right of Ian Backhouse to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2022)

ISBN 978-1-80378-034-4 (eBook)

www.cranthorpemillner.com

Cranthorpe Millner Publishers

For my beautiful wife

Lou -

Who literally saved my life

And a huge thank you to Rob

- you know why

But the way of the wicked is like total darkness

They have no idea what they are stumbling over

Proverbs 4:19

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness

Ephesians 5:11

PROLOGUE

It knew itself that it was living, but was not alive. Even more so now it could sense the acute and potent energy flowing down. Raw instinct drew it towards the source of the power. A power which effervesced from an abundance of sources that had begun to materialise and conjoin, triggering an innate, irreversible compulsion to peel and wrench and tear itself up and away from its primeval roots towards it.

Life.

Sentience.

Self.

It did not understand how, but it could feel the acute force, calling it up from the depths and knew it offered such.

Offered what it must never have.

Offered it the antithesis of its own reason for existence.

And as it tore away from its stems, began moving closer to that intoxicating energy, for the first time it understood its own malevolence, the unfathomable depth of its own cruelty.

And as it continued to move towards the source, if it could have smiled, it would have done so…

Late Summer, 1996

ONE

Frank Bernie was no snowflake - eighteen years in the Parachute Regiment, fourteen years in private security after that, retiring at fifty-eight. He was still able to get out of a chair without the involuntary grunt that usually accompanied men of his age and he had kept his mind sharp.

Which was why in the semi-darkness, he’d found himself so dumbfounded, felt the dribble trickle down the inside of his leg, the punch of terror in his stomach so hard that he’d staggered backwards into one of the glass displays. His heavy bulk had bounced off the reinforced glass, and he’d thrust his arms out, grasping for anything that might be there to steady himself, only finding thin air, and a hard drop to the floor.

Oddly enough, the afternoon had started very well. Bright sunshine and a cloudless sky, the muted cry of gulls, people passing by, occasional laughter drifting in through the narrow ticket hall.

He’d purchased the small museum on the seafront a month ago, combining his retirement plan to live by the sea with owning a small local business. All his life he’d been a runner. It was his passion, and although now his distance and pace were far gentler, it was his one way of escaping everything. No matter what was going on in his life, running had always been the one thing that took him to a peaceful place, and the ability to now run on the beach every day was the realisation of a lifelong goal.

A steady trickle of visitors had continued, including the odd young man the day before, who had spent almost two hours wandering around, eventually buying a replica ration book, map, and a hardback about the English civil war. He’d seen him before along the seafront. A local, possibly, rather than a tourist, though they were beginning to dwindle now the late summer was coming to an end.

He closed dead on time as the darkening evening started to persuade beach lovers to pack up and head for the pubs and restaurants, stopping for a moment before locking the main entrance, enjoying the view. The horizon was a thin strip of white light under orange-stained clouds, the shore a dark mass, featureless now, the sound of the distant tide the only thing to prove its presence.

It was peaceful.

Tranquil -

- until the sound of detonating glass suddenly shattered the silence.

He turned sharply, but instead of rushing in to investigate, he held his ground, listening. Even now, his years in a caution-dependant career kept his fight or flight response sharp.

Silence…

Just the waves in the distance.

Stealthily he closed the door, but left it unlocked. He’d already switched all the display cabinet lights off, leaving on just the rows of ceiling LEDs that ran throughout the museum, casting double reflections and deep shadows across the contents of each cabinet. Most of the artefacts in them were small and eclectic: letters home from soldiers, Roman pottery, Victorian toys, pre-war mariners’ equipment, historic farm apparatus – an odd collection documenting the island’s unusual history. There were also several cabinets throughout the museum in which mannequins told the story. And though he’d have never admitted it to anyone, Frank always found them a little creepy in the half-light when shutting up shop. None of your lip-trembling or knee-shaking kind of nonsense, just a little uneasiness. Their facial features seemed to melt away, and if he stared long enough for his eyes to distinguish shape from shadow, he always thought he could suddenly see a mouth or eye begin to move. Clearly an illusion, but enough to cause his pace to quicken ever so slightly as he passed those particular cases.

No further noise came, so, softly, he began walking along the entrance hall, catching sight of his reflection, sliding from glass pane to glass pane of each display.  A hint of paunch was visible, but for a man of his age, he had an upright gate, reasonable musculature, and the suit he wore sat well on him.

He listened again, still walking. It was difficult to tell where the sound of the breaking glass had come from – the small rooms and corridors with their low ceilings and rough plastered walls caused sounds to behave oddly. The museum had originally been a medieval wool house, and even now, the beams and ironwork emitted a mild, musty odour, lending the place an additional eccentricity.

As he moved along the entrance hall toward the Roman room, he thought it unlikely to be one of the cabinets. They were safety glass. Which just left the windows. Some nasty little thief trying his luck? Well, he’d show them the business end of an ex-para’s training.

The entrance hall curved gently to the right, and as he reached the doorway to the Roman room, placing a soft footstep on to the tiled floor, the entire row of ceiling lights flickered erratically -

- then died –

-  plunging him into darkness.

He stopped, immediately shut his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them his night vision had kicked in and he could at least make out the boundaries of the room, and the black, yawning rectangle to his left – the entrance to the Victorian room. So, the amateur thought cutting a couple of wires was going to scare him?

Then the same sound fragmented the silence again, the shattering of glass, now so much louder.

His heart wanted to leap into his throat, but self-control refused to allow such a reaction. His head instinctively turned towards the sound, the corridor to the left. Clearly nothing was going on in the room he now stood in. Once again, he began to move forward, still softly, still slowly, towards the dingy doorway.

And as he passed through it, the vague shapes emerging in the mirk, a single ceiling LED flickered back on, horribly dim, doing little to make the room any more inviting.

He frowned – so the electrics hadn’t been cut. On the left and right were wall-to-ceiling, glass-fronted displays. The left told the story of industry on the island during the late 1800s – manual mining equipment, small medical implements, textile sample – and two mannequins: a local ‘gent’ of the day, and a chimney sweep. The local ‘gent’ had been rescued from a tip, a haggard specimen, one missing eye roughly painted back in, a crack running down the cheek and no bottom lip. The lack of light cast deep pockets of shadow across its face, making it appear oddly distorted. The chimney sweep was a boy, face smothered in boot polish for soot, bare feet, and a threadbare brush clumsily nailed to one of his hands. His white eyes were all the more obvious for the polish across his brow and cheeks, as they stared sightlessly towards the floor in the middle of the room.

In the centre of the room was a column display, housing just the one mannequin, a soldier of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers – black peaked hat, bright red waist tunic, and dark blue trousers gathered over black boots.

Finally, there was the main piece, a display that went floor to ceiling and the entire width of the room opposite the entrance. If he did say so himself, Frank thought this the most authentic exhibit in the museum, a mock-up of a Victorian nursery. There was a cast-iron fireplace on the left wall, and a high bookshelf on the right. Between these was a wicker table and two small chairs covered in toys of the period: a china tea set, teddy bears, alphabet building blocks, chequers board, a large doll’s house, circular train set, rocking horse, tin drum and more. The scene was almost completed by the mannequin of the nanny holding the pram at the very back, as if about to leave for a gentle wander around one of the island’s parks, dressed in a black French twill dress from neck to ankle, there was no white apron as was sometimes worn. Nothing to lift the dourness. Severity, commitment, and discipline exuded from her. Her face was obscured by a black bonnet, and even standing to the far left or right of the display, her face always seemed to remain just out of vision. The carriage pram was also black, set in a dark wood frame with a folding hood, curled handle, and spoked wheels, and peeking over the side of the pram was one of the two hundred and thirty-two exhibits that truly completed the entire scene. They lined the front of the display, sat on every available surface, dressed in a bewildering array of styles, some on the knees of others, the smaller ones propping up some of the larger ones –

Dolls.

Four hundred and sixty-four over-sized, unsighted eyes, set above gaudy rouge cheeks painted on glazed, yellowing skin staring out at nothing.

He looked about – certainly no damage to the displays. He turned to the Fusilier. The glass looked intact. Both times the smashing of glass had sounded so loud and violent. But so far, there was nothing to suggest any such occurrence in the rooms he’d passed through. He shook his head, turned back to the nursery display again. It had to be a window. These cabinets were virtually indestructible. All part of health and safety these days. So that meant going through to the kitchen area at the rear of the building – the only room with windows.

But he still had to take it carefully – what if the intruder had already got in? He didn’t want to rush on through only to meet him coming the other way. He needed to keep the advantage, stay stealthy and slow. So, he moved off again, keeping to the left edge of the side displays. As dim as the single ceiling-light was, he missed its glow instantly as he moved into the gloom again towards the nursery at the end of the room.

He stopped a couple of feet before he reached the doorway that would take him through the next two rooms and into the kitchen. He glanced across at the nanny – now just a flat shape in the darkness, still gripping the carriage pram. Disconcertingly, weak shreds of light still managed to pick out sporadic faces of the dolls that surrounded her, each gazing off in a different direction. Still, it didn’t look like anything was damaged there either.

He listened again for any sounds that might indicate someone was now inside the building. But needn’t have bothered.

It sliced through the silence yet again, the detonation of splintering glass erupting from immediately behind him. He spun, coming face to face with the Fusilier –

- still encased and inanimate.

Then from his left and right simultaneously as if the cases were bursting open down each side of the room, the sound came again. His jaw gaped as again, nothing happened before him, just that deafening sound.

Then from behind him - shattering glass again.

He whirled, what was left of the single LED dimmed and died, and he threw up his arms as the pane before the nursery display blew out, the noise searing his eardrums! In that split-second, he waited for the sting of flying splinters to lacerate exposed skin – but no pain came. He dropped his arms slowly, revealing to himself the unbroken glass before him. He stared at it, then took a step forward, eyes never leaving the display. Then another step, and one more, fingertips reaching out to touch the pane tentatively. It didn’t yield, and he pressed harder, began running his palms across it.

No cracks.

Smooth.

Unblemished.

Slowly he brought the tip of his nose within an inch of the glass. His peripheral vision faded as he fixed his gaze on the dolls, all of them still staring off blindly at random angles into the dark. He lifted his eyes up to the inky form of the nanny, still holding on to the pram.

Nothing else in there.

No one else in there.

He stole a glance left.

Then right.

Then back at the dolls –and every head had turned, all of them now staring sightlessly at him.

Yet before he could scream, his head snapped up as the nanny came hurtling through the air towards him with a detestable, shrill shriek from her long gaping mouth, as if the jaw itself were melting downward. The twill dress flailed, her arms flat at her sides, the rest of her face featureless as it slammed into the glass an inch from his –

- which was when he’d recoiled in abject terror, bounced off the Fusiliers cabinet and hit the floor, cracking the side of his head on the skirting, where he now found himself laying.

For a second or two, he saw white flecks darting across his vision, but terror took over, and he was up on his knees, scrambling backwards, then pushing himself up on to his feet to meet that hideous oncoming nanny –

- nothing.

All of the ceiling-lights were back on. The nursery display was exactly as it always was.

There was silence.

At which point he realised he’d wet himself, and the gush of warm blood down the back of his balding scalp made him shiver. His whole body was trembling. Without a second thought he made for the kitchen area, steadying himself against walls and cabinets along the way, legs flailing like a new-born calf, blood spattering to the floor. He no longer cared if anyone else was in the building. Almost wished there was - anything but being alone here, now. Reaching the Prehistoric room, he as much as collapsed through the door marked ‘Staff’ at the far-left corner, and fell into the kitchen, saving his balance on one of the work units.

Catching his breath, he looked around desperately, seeing the hot-cupboard. He grabbed it, using his full weight to pull it into motion, and forced it up against the door. At least in the Paras, he fought an enemy he could see. This was insane!

His trembling was now uncontrollable, the blood from his wound flooding down underneath his shirt and across his back. He stumbled over to check the windows were locked and dropped the blinds. Snatching up the phone from the wall, he stabbed at it, getting Jon’s number right after the third shaky attempt. Raising it to his ear, he waited for the ring at the other end.

The line buzzed gently. A few seconds more, he thought.

It continued to buzz.

And buzz...

…and then he let out a long sigh, as the ring tone began.

And rang…

…and rang…

Come on Jon, please, please answer the damn phone.

A few more seconds and at last, the ‘click’ of the receiver being lifted at the other end.

Hello, Jon?

Hello, Jon?  His own voice echoed back at him.

Jon?

Jon? His own voice again.

Can you hear me?

Can you hear me?

Oh, for Christ’s sake!

Don’t curse, Frank. Your mother raised you better than that, his own voice told him.

The phone flew from his hand, the coiled wire too long to save it from smashing open on the tiled floor. He grabbed a chair, pulling it to the opposite corner of the room and behind the tall catering shelf. He slumped into it, back to the wall staring at the door, eyes wide and watery. Blood immediately beginning to soak into the back of the chair. The piss on his trousers was starting to smell, but he didn’t even notice; he wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to sit right here until daylight.

Until Maureen turned up to clean the place.

Lovely, normal Maureen.

Whom he could see.

Whom he could touch.

Who was real.

TWO

The Black Dog was the most popular pub on the island, both for the locals and tourists. It was built in 1284 as a house for the landowner, the rather unpopular The Baron de Fray, Edward Lambton, rather fitting then, that after his string of crimes against the population of the island, and his ill-disguised hatred for any place that wasn’t landlocked, he’d drowned when the boat taking him back to the mainland sank.

It was constructed from island stone, with square double windows at the front, gable roof with loft window, and a stubby, three-tiered chimney. To the far right was the original entrance to the kitchens, and remained so, whilst the far left, a head-bumping five-foot doorway offered entry to the main bar. The 13th-century flagstones led from the entrance through the expansive garden that ended at the cliffs, a beautiful view overlooking the shore. At sunset, the punters doubled in number, all eyes on the apricot haze, drinks in hands.

Inside, the bar, made from the same stone as the building, ran the length of the room, curving to the wall at the end by the entrance to the small restaurant section. An extensive choice of gins, rums, local bottled brews, and some rather unusual spirits adorned the rear wall. Photographs hung on most of the walls: the moorland, the town on The Borrow and houses on The Lend, the original steam locomotive that connected the two across The Horseshoe and others – authentic depictions of the island’s history. The furnishings were generous and comfortable, with two and three-seater sofas, armchairs by the fireplace and a couple of stools at the bar.

Early afternoon