EXCLUSIVE!
Can't wait for Salt Snake and Other Bloody Cuts to be published? Here's a complete story from the collection to whet your appetite!
"In a moment, I want to show you something that for the life of me I can't explain."
Head and shoulders in the TV screen is man. Mid-thirties, cheerful, curly black hair, so clean shaven the razor burn glares in sore red patches above his shirt collar.
He speaks. A soft, middle-class voice. "Good morning. My name is Jonathon Skilton. I'm..." He smiles self consciously. "Heck. This is harder than you think. Right, Jonno. You're going to do it. You see, I want to watch this in ten years and see what I'm like now, thirty-four years old, and right at the start of this... adventure. Adventure? Yeah, why not. It is an adventure. Of course, in ten years I might see this and think: You stupid fool. You chucked away a perfectly good legal career, for this lunatic, wing-and-a-prayer escapade. But with luck, I – ten years older – will be saying to this image you're seeing now: You were right Jonathon Skilton. You were right to take the chance. You've only got one life. This is no rehearsal for the real thing: it is the real thing. Grab your destiny with both fists and blithering-well go for it. So, here I am. In a stone cottage in the Yorkshire Pennines with nothing but hills and heather and a gale that blows constantly. The locals say they only know when it's summer when cricketers shovel the snow off the pitch. And I wouldn't change it for the world. Right... come with me."
Smiling happily, Skilton picks up the camera. View of a study. Packing cases line one wall. Books piled on floor. Facing a white washed wall a desk with computer.
"There's my pride and joy. My new PC. I sold my car to buy that. Oh... I know I'm supposed to be talking to me, ten years in the future, but just to remind you... me, this hysterically stark-staring adventure I've embarked on is to become a writer. Other small biographical details: Divorced; current girlfriend lives in Wakefield; state of bank balance: not bad; the proceeds from selling the house will keep me ticking over ten months. And... do you want to know a secret?" He opens the bottom drawer in the desk. The only item therein is a revolver.
"There it is, a Taurus .38 Special, loaded with hollow nosed slugs. I was burgled two years ago. A friend gave me the gun for protection. To be honest, I'm now more afraid of the gun than burglars. Before long I'll end up chucking the damn thing in a river. Right, come through here into the kitchen. Remember, I wanted to show you something I found this morning." Smiles into camera which he sets on a kitchen table. "Something bloody weird. But first: Fanfares; twenty-one gun salute: A letter arrived this morning." A hand moves into vision holding three sheets of paper. "A letter; with a contract in duplicate! My first professional sale! A Mr. Karl Dutch, he edits the World's Best Horror Series, has only gone and bought one of my stories!" He reads. "Dear Jonathon. You'll be pleased to learn that "Bobbing Up And Down" has made the final cut for THE WORLD'S BEST HORROR XIV. If the enclosed permission forms, and payment of $60 is acceptable, please...' etc. etc. I'll say it's acceptable. What's $60 in sterling? About forty quid? It won't buy a Porsche, but it's a start. I'm getting a story into a REAL book. Can you imagine what that means to me after all these years trying? I'll be cracking open a bottle of Newcastle Brown tonight to celebrate... Right. Now for the mystery of Clough Top Cottage. Come with me."
He picks up camera. The kitchen is being refurbished. Walls stripped of paper. Bare wires protrude from ceiling. New door leans against one wall. Tins of paint stand on fridge.
"Yesterday, I ripped out some ancient cupboards that ran along that wall. They were held in position by hefty wooden pegs that had been driven into the wall. I imagine these pegs were the forerunners of raw plugs. Anyway. I finished late last night by pulling out these wooden pegs, ruddy big things they were. This morning I was going to fill holes with Polyfilla.
"Naturally, the arrival of the letter from Mr. Dutch delayed things a bit. I had to run like a loony round the cottage shouting at the top of my voice and reading it over and over; then biting the back of my hand to make sure I wasn't dreaming... Then when I got round to filling the holes I noticed that two of them – one at this end of the wall – one at the other, near the fridge go right through. That's right. Two holes, big enough to insert a cucumber, go right through. At first I thought it was simply into the cavity you get in modern houses between two walls. But this cottage is nearly two hundred years old. They didn't bother with anything so fancy as cavity walls then. So, I poked a broom handle through and, blow me, it didn't stop for about three feet before hitting an obstruction. That's the hole near the fridge. But the one at this end... I can stick the handle right in as far as the brush head.
He directs the camera at two holes in the wall approximately five feet above the floor. The edges of the hole are rough and powdery where the wooden plugs were extracted. Beyond the hole only darkness.
"At the other side of the wall is a kind of lean to outhouse. I've checked; the holes don't go right through into there. Curiouser and curiouser. The air seeping through the hole smells... not too pleasant, but I can't put my finger on what it is. I've shone a torch through. It's difficult to see much but through one I can see a stone wall three feet away from the hole. The weird one is at this end. There I could see a doorway, with a ceiling beyond that slopes sharply down. As if it's an entrance to a cellar. Now, this cottage has no cellar; at least it's not supposed to. So, we've the start of an intriguing little mystery. Why was the cellar blocked off? Can I reopen the entrance? If I do, what will I find down there? But that's going to have to wait. First, I'm going to read Mr. Dutch's letter and contracts several more times. Then I'm going to write my reply."
The screen is dark. Pale shapes swing out of darkness. Nothing identifiable. But impression is of the camera moving very quickly. Duration: Thirty seconds. Recorded sounds: Deep juddering sounds becoming muffled. Majority of sounds seem to be an object or objects striking the camcorder's microphone.
"What do you make of that?" On screen a talking head shot of Jonathon Skilton. He sits at the kitchen table. Behind the window runs with rain. A gale roars. "I watched what I recorded yesterday. You know, the introduction, reading Karl Dutch's letter, showing you the holes in the wall. That's fine. But immediately after that comes those shots of what looks like someone running like mad with the camera. It wasn't me that's for sure. I haven't touched the camera since yesterday. The tape's new. I suppose what you just saw could have been recorded accidentally by the manufacturer. Who knows. It's just..." The man's expression is troubled. "It's just I had the impression someone was in my bedroom last night. I was half awake, facing the wall, and I had the strongest... feeling... sensation that someone was walking up and down the bedroom floor behind me... I know, I know, I must've dreamt it." Turns to look out of window. Stares, self-absorbed. Then: "Come on. You haven't seen the cottage yet."
Exterior shot. View of the stone cottage on the hillside. It stands alone. Surrounding it, moorland. The gale rocks a lone tree back and forth. The rain makes the cottage look black.
"Damn..." Jonathon sits at the computer. Its screen is blue, bearing white print.
"Damn and blast..." He taps keys. "Look at this. Fifteen hundred quid's worth of hardware and it won't print a single letter. Not any letter – just the most important letter I've ever written. Accepting Karl Dutch's offer to buy my story for the World's Best Horror. The computer's refusing to recognise my printer. But no, my beauty. I'm not going to let you beat me. You will print out this letter if it's the last thing I fizzing-well do." Looks into camera lens. "Oh, I can't be bothered with you as well. Video diary? More like a pain in–"
His hand looms toward the lens. The image cuts to more pale shapes streaming out of darkness. Again impression is of camera being carried by someone running through a dark place. Whether inside or out is not known.
After eighteen seconds this cuts to talking-head shot of Jonathon Skilton, expression gloomy. "Two days I've been working on that computer, trying to write that damn letter to Karl Dutch. Two days! I could have chiselled the thing on a stone slab in that time! Now. Press key F10. While it prints – hopefully! – you can take a look at this..." Skilton picks up camera. Jerky view of study, doorway, then into kitchen. "The fridge. It's packed in. The repairman said the freon, apparently that's the stuff that makes the thing cold, had leaked away. Or more likely been deliberately drained off. Usually it takes years for freon to leak down to those levels. Want to see more? You've seen more. I checked the camcorder tape yesterday. After my latest recording it was blank. This morning there's more of that weird stuff on it. Like someone running with the camera at night." He sighs.
"Back we go to the holes in the walls. When I first shone the torch through, the walls were bare. Now there's something white hanging down. I can't make it out... The best I can describe it a piece of white cloth hanging on a nail. Again I'm only guessing because the view's restricted by the narrowness of the hole. You know what I think? I think someone's found a way in here through the cellar... Then, somehow, into the cottage. Now they're playing some kind of game to try and screw my mind... If they come back tonight, I'll know more. I'm going to link up the camcorder to the VCR in my bedroom. Anyone comes into my bedroom, I'll catch them on tape."
It's dark. Sounds of crying. A pale shape flaps into the air and falls.
"Nn–no. Go away... Leave... please leave... please leave me... Go away... Ah, ah no..." More crying. Unintelligible words that sound like pleading. The voice belongs to Jonathon Skilton. Camera is directed at his bed. The pale shape rises and falls, flapping. It's the bed quilt being lifted, almost as if someone is making the bed and shaking out the creased quilt. There is insufficient light to show clearly what is happening. Skilton appears to be lying on his side facing the wall with an arm over his face. He cries with fright. The bedding flaps. Whether it is a second person in the room lifting the bedding or if he is doing it himself can not be discerned.
"Go away... Please. Leave me. Leave me! Don't touch me. Don't. Please..." His cries to a person unseen continue for three minutes.
Next scenes are jerky and shot in near darkness. The camcorder is carried downstairs at a run, through study and into kitchen. Sound of object rubbing against mike; affect is of respiration: loud, rasping. Once in the kitchen the camera is borne toward the wall with the two holes. Screen fades to black. Then glimpse of stone wall. Steps leading down through doorway. What follows is impression of camera being carried by someone running. Grey shapes flit out of darkness. Nothing identifiable.
Head shot of Skilton. His face his stubbled, he looks unkempt and melancholy.
"I don't remember it. But there is a video record of me being... assaulted in bed last night. I remember nothing. I've seen the shots of someone running with the camcorder. It seems whoever it was who filmed them simply picked up the camcorder, ran downstairs, somehow entered the passage that runs behind the kitchen wall, ran down into the cellar; then they're just running and running. You see glimpses, just... just grey flashes of things. I don't know what they are, but..." He looks into camera, exhausted. "But, they are disturbing to see, somehow. I feel as if I should recognise them... It just makes me feel sick. That's all."
A shot of Skilton sat at the computer, typing.
Noise: excited breathing. Rapid movement. Darkness.
"Midnight." Skilton's voice. Hushed, excited. "I woke. Thought I saw a figure... DID! see a figure in the doorway of my bedroom. This time – I've got them. I've got them. They went downstairs. I'm sure... Kitchen probably."
Sudden glare as Skilton switches on landing light. He's carrying camera, so all that is glimpsed is his bare feet descending. His hand comes into view. He's carrying the handgun. Very fast he bounds downstairs. Into study. Pause. Books have been strewn across floor.
"Bastards!" Skilton runs into kitchen. The intruder is not there. Skilton places camcorder on table. It shows the kitchen wall. He runs forward (wearing pyjamas). He looks through hole in wall above refrigerator.
"Stop! Come back here. I said stop! I'm armed. Stop or you're dead!"
Furiously, he thrusts muzzle of gun into the hole and fires once. He looks through hole again, then hurries to second hole (off camera) and fires three times into the hole.
In the following, Skilton is calm; his throat, however, sounds sore. "4 am. I don't think I hit them. Probably a good thing. I'd have been the one to end up in jail." Looks wearily into camera. "You saw what happened. An intruder. I pursued. I didn't see him properly. When I looked through the holes in the kitchen wall I saw something passing by in the walled up passageway. What? Who knows. I fired. You know the rest." He drinks from a steaming mug. "What next? Call the police? They'll dismiss me as a nut. Seal off the cellar? I would if I could find the entrance... What would you do?"
A plethora of confused scenes follow. Most without Skilton's commentary. He looks increasingly dishevelled, tired. Now bearded. Examples of camcorder shots that continue for twenty three minutes:-
- Skilton working at computer;
- Skilton painting cottage interior;
- exterior shots of cottage in a snowstorm;
- night scenes: Skilton apparently semi-conscious in bed crying to be left alone;
- several shots (possibly on different days) of petty vandalism to the cottage and its contents: furniture upended, paint tipped from cans onto kitchen floor, packet foods scattered on worktops, computer cables disconnected, manuscripts lying torn on the floor;
- night times scenes of Skilton firing the handgun through holes in kitchen wall;
- eighteen short scenes of Skilton reading letters he has received; all from book publishers and magazine editors rejecting his stories.
Bearded, Skilton sits at the kitchen table, a letter in his hand. He is expressionless.
"I've now been a full-time writer five months. In my five years of trying to become a professional writer I have written six novels. Publishers did not want to know. All six novels lie rotting in a box through there. Five years of trying – five years of failing. If you were me, what would you do?" He looks into the camera for a moment, then his face breaks into a weary smile. "But today, thank heaven, it's all changed. This letter arrived twenty minutes ago from Hyatt & Constantine, Chicago, one of the most successful publishing houses in the world. And I quote: 'Dear Jonathon Skilton. We are delighted to be able to offer you an advance against royalties of $5000 for the world rights of your novel, Quid Pro Quo. Our intention is to publish your book as a paperback original in the fall.'" He looks directly into the lens. "I can't really believe it's real, maybe it's all illusion. But the contract they sent with the letter feels real enough." He takes a deep breath. "Well. It took me just eight weeks to write the novel. Perhaps that's the atmosphere... inspirational atmosphere of this place. The book is about a man who lives alone. He's trying – and failing – to become a writer. Before long he realises he is being visited by something he can never actually see – or understand. It scares him. It scares him very badly, leaving him anxious, disturbed even. He tries to prevent what is happening to him. He can't. Eventually he realises this... this intrusion has become part of his life. Like a man who suffers the death of his wife, he has to come to terms with it, and accept it is now part of his life. The intrusion... invasion? call it what you want, still distresses him. But in a way it's not all bad. In the end, afterall, it brought him what he really wanted from life." Skilton, smiles wearily and picks up a document. "Excuse me, I've a book contract to sign."
Before he signs, Jonathon Skilton looks out of the screen at us for the last time. "Besides. If I ever have more than I can endure of this intruder, although I can't stop it, I have the perfect method of escape." At this point Skilton picks up the handgun, presses the muzzle to the side of his head, and softly says, "Bang."