Letters from the dead, p.1
Letters from the Dead, page 1
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PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF CAMPBELL ARMSTRONG
“Campbell Armstrong is thriller writing’s best-kept secret.” —The Sunday Times
“Armstrong is among the most intriguing of blockbuster writers … near to unputdownable.” —GQ
“While touching on suspense with a skill to please hard-core thriller addicts, he manages to please people who … warm to readable novels of substance.” —Daily Mail
“Armstrong’s skill is not just an eye for a criminally good tale but a passion for the people that will populate it.” —The Scotsman
“Subtle and marvelous … This is a dazzling book.” —The Daily Telegraph on Agents of Darkness
“A consummate psychological thriller … Without doubt, Armstrong is now in the front rank of thriller writers.” —Books on Heat
“Armstrong has outdone both Frederick Forsyth and Ken Follett.” —James Patterson on Jig
“A full throttle adventure thriller.” —The Guardian on Mambo
“A wonderful puzzle that keeps us guessing right to the end.” —Publishers Weekly on Mazurka
Letters from the Dead
Campbell Armstrong
To Rebecca, for her support, help, insights and patience, this book is dedicated
In most ghost stories, possession
is nine-tenths of the law.
—OLD SCOTTISH PROVERB
Prologue
OTHER TIME FRAMES
[1916]
The sound of a single gunshot echoed throughout the house, as if it had exploded into small fragments of noise capable of traveling from one room to another. Then it died and the girl could hear other noises now, which came to her from a great distance. Outside, in the dark, horses shook their huge bodies and whinnied and hoofs pounded the sand. Glass was shattered and the girl imagined she could see it fall through kerosene light in a million little shards. And beyond, as always, there was the strident call of the ocean, the tide whining and mounting the shore.
Then there were the angry voices of men and the noise of doors opening and closing and harsh footsteps crossing the floors of the rooms below.
The girl listened a moment, her hands gripped round the length of rope. The strength of its fiber surprised her somehow. Its weight was more than she had imagined. She ran her fingers over its rough surface, feeling the intricacy of the way it had been twined. From a simple seed of hemp to a tall plant with small green flowers, it had become transmuted into this flexible object she now held—and she wondered at this for a second, almost as if it were a magical transformation, a form of legerdemain.
But there was no time left in which to stand motionless and gaze at the mysteries contained in a simple length of rope. There was no time left at all, because she could hear another sound now, one that was different from all the others. It was the tap-tapping of a cane on the staircase. Tap-tap-tap. The noise filled her with dread. Tap. It was coming closer, rising up the stairs.
She fashioned the rope the way she wanted it, her small fingers working quickly. Then, thinking of the gunshot from before, imagining the man slumped dead at the table in the kitchen downstairs, she hesitated. A sense of emptiness, a feeling of sadness, touched her. She understood what she had to do, but if she didn’t do it now there would be no time left to her.
She stepped across the room.
Tap-tap-tap.
The sound was outside on the landing. She heard the raw creak of a floorboard. She imagined she heard the sound of an overcoat brush the wall.
Now.
It had to be done now.
Tiny fibers, detached from the rope, adhered to her hands like soft splinters. She hardly noticed them.
Smiling, the rope hanging from her hand in the fashion of something serpentine, she moved across the bedroom floor. She was conscious, not of endings, not of curtains falling on an empty stage, but of a different beginning, another kind of drama.
Outside, down the darkness, the sea had become wild, the tide churning and the half-moon masked by formless clouds, as if some conspiracy of sea and sky were being played out.
Tap. The creak of a door.
Then nothing save a small dark world filled with silences and eternities.
[1920]
The young man woke abruptly, his body drenched with sweat, bedsheets sticking to his flesh and his hair matted against the pillow. He pushed himself up from the mattress and reached awkwardly for the window, which he struggled to open. He lay back down, gasping, breathing the thick, moist night air. It seemed to clot at the back of his throat, stale and unbreathable and filled with particles of salt. He was thirsty but the water pitcher on the nightstand was empty. For a time, he didn’t move. He simply stared at the darkened ceiling.
An image of the girl entered his mind.
He closed his eyes but the image persisted. It was clear and hard and crisp and the passage of four years had done nothing to blur its edges.
He rubbed his eyelids with his knuckles, pressing harder than he should have done. But the image remained, like something branded into the filaments of his brain. He sat upright and gazed at the window. The night was still and heavy and listless, a clammy expanse of dark that suffocated him. He swung his bare legs away from the bed and his feet touched the floor.
He saw a faint night breeze, nothing more than a heavy whisper from the ocean, stir the pale lace curtain that hung at his window. It grazed the sweat on his face and then it was gone and the dark was a vacant hollow again. In his mind he followed the outline of the shore as it twisted away from the village and curved around the headland and meandered past the sea house, whose blind windows he imagined, whose balcony and rooftop and doorways he could clearly see, whose interior rooms stood out with stark clarity inside his head. The presences—he could feel them even now as surely as he might feel warm poultices pressed against his skin.
The presences.
A sound from below the open window drifted up to his room.
It grew slowly until he recognized it as the footsteps and voices of perhaps thirty, forty people. Then there were lights, the pale motions of lanterns illuminating the branches of trees outside his window. A sensation of fear went through him.
Leaning forward, he pressed his hands against the window ledge and, balanced awkwardly, looked down at the cluster of lights. He knew where the procession was going.
And he knew why.
Two days before, a girl had disappeared.
She was the daughter of the Reverend McAllister, a precocious child of about twelve, pretty and carefree and, some said, more than a little headstrong, a little careless. And she had been seen walking out of the village along the sea path that led nowhere else but the beach house.
He stared down into the lights, which had come to a halt beneath his window, inviting him to join the procession. The silence of the group below was sudden and shocking to him and he could see half-lit faces look upward, eyes darkened and little more than unlit pools that suggested the sockets of skeletons.
He would go with them. Reluctantly he would go because he felt a curious sense of responsibility.
He would go out to the sea house even if he had no desire to do so. Even if he never wanted to set his eyes on the place again.
He called to the people below.
It would take him only a few minutes to dress.
Outside, the air was like a damp curtain. When he joined the group he recognized Daniel Braxton and the Reverend McAllister and some of the other faces huddled around the lanterns. The silence was dense, grim, almost as if it existed separately from the procession.
The group did not move for a moment: it seemed to be waiting until it had absorbed him into its midst. And then it stepped forward, the lanterns creating a spectral effect, a nimbus that hovered over the heads and faces of the members, as vague as the aura spiritualists were always claiming to see. The young man felt moist air spread through his thin shirt.
Four years had passed since he had last gone out to the sea house.
Four years, he thought.
And there it was again, bright inside his head, the image of the child as he had found her, and that whole terrible night came back again—
The procession had left the village behind, traveling a narrow dirt road that ran close to the edge of the sands. The feeble light of the lanterns fell only a little way across the beach, and the night was moonless. The young man, his left leg hurting, had the feeling that the world was suddenly empty, that nothing existed save this small group of people and the house to which they walked. He wanted to stop and go back and leave the place alone. He stared out over the darkened beach. Far off, sizzling through the black sheet of sky, there was an abrupt zigzag of lightning that lit the surface of water briefly and then it was gone.
Elyse McAllister.
Would they find the girl out there as they had found the other one four years before?
The young man knew the answer to that without even pondering it, and he experienced a sense of finality. He understood that the members of the group had this same knowledge too; unspoken, even unspeakable, it existed among them with all the sadness of the inevitable.
The sea wind fluttered against the thin flames of the lanterns and shapeless moths swarmed over the lights. Ahead, a mile or so along the strip of the path, the house was visible. The sight of it caused the procession to stop a moment and the young man had the feeling that the group had become suddenly caught up in a vacuum of indecision. He could feel it pull back, pull away, a collective tremor running through it.
There were lights in all the windows.
The yellowy-blue lights of kerosene lamps.
Even though nobody had occupied the place in four years, the house was alive in the darkness.
The young man paused a minute and then he walked forward, conscious of the group shuffling behind him, although with less purpose than before. Four years ago an attempt had been made to torch the building. Men had hurried from room to room carrying blazing straw and gasoline-soaked newspapers.
He had a headache as he remembered it now.
As if the house had been sucked dry of oxygen, as if some odd flaw had occurred in the physical structure of the place, a defiance of logic and common sense and the rules that governed chemical reactions, the fires had all gone out before they had had a chance to damage the property. Whether blown out or doused by some invisible agent, nobody knew. Nobody wanted to find out. And so the house had lain empty and unvisited for four years, a doomed place in the minds of the village people, something dark that sat upon the landscape like a stain.
The young man was not superstitious. He had traveled away from the village, after all, and he had even fought in Europe in the Great War. He had experience of other places. And the simple sight of kerosene flames flooding the windows should not have scared him this way.
Now, as he approached the pathway that led through the grove of trees to the property, he paused. A little more than four years ago he had sold this land to a man who wanted to build a house in an isolated place, a man who didn’t want the company of others because he needed solitude …
Solitude, the young man thought.
We all know why. We all know why he wanted isolation.
He gazed at the lights burning against the windows.
He had sold the land, and so, in that sense, he had a nebulous responsibility for what happened in this place. He closed his eyes a second and remembered the way the flames had sputtered and died, remembered the scents of burning newspapers and gasoline fumes and scorched straw, remembered how he had climbed the stairway to the upper part of the house.
He was conscious of the group pressing against him and he understood that he was meant to go inside the house alone. The same weary sense of responsibility assailed him. He could have turned around and said that it had nothing to do with him, he had entered into a simple land transaction, that the house and what had taken place inside it was none of his affair—but he did not do any of these things. He accepted the judgment of the group without question.
Still, he didn’t move.
The blue-yellow windows of the house seemed to scrutinize him, as if an intelligence lay just beyond the panes of flat glass.
Something that watched.
Yes, he thought. There is something that does nothing but watch.
He moved along the path slowly.
When he reached the porch he stopped again.
From behind he could feel the group urging him to go forward.
The wooden slats of the porch creaked under his feet as he stepped toward the door.
And then he was inside the house, aware of how thick dust lay across all the furniture, conscious of the yellow keys of the piano and sheet music open at a certain page, aware of the flickering brightness of the wall lamps and the faint sound of something moving in an upstairs room. Here and there, relics of four years ago, lay charred sheets of newspaper and stalks of burned straw and spent matches and slivers of broken glass that sparkled in the lamplight. The young man stood in the center of the room, looking in the direction of the kitchen, the door to which stood open. He heard, as though from a muffled distance, the echo of a single gunshot—but that was his imagination, nothing else. A devious trick of his memory.
He did not take his eyes away from the rectangle of light flooding the kitchen doorway.
A shadow passed in front of the light, went away, returned.
The shadow of somebody walking restlessly, relentlessly, back and forth.
The young man stared at it. He moved toward the doorway.
The kitchen was empty.
He had the strange sensation of blood draining out of him, of a fierce chill around his heart.
An empty room. A shadow moving.
This house, he thought, had been designed by an architect from hell.
He rubbed the damp palms of his hands together and went to the bottom of the stairs, gazing upward to the landing, seeing the closed doors of bedrooms that stretched away. Four years ago he had gone up there.
It was not a trip he wanted to take again.
He placed his fingers on the handrail and his foot on the first step.
It seemed to him that he heard—from no distinctive source but rather from the walls of the house itself, from all the rooms and all the lit spaces—a whispered sound which he tried to ignore. He reached the second step, paused, stared up. The lamps were brighter now and the whisper had become louder, more insidious. A voice was forming a name, but he wasn’t going to listen to it. It was merely another trick of mind.
Halfway up the stairs he stopped again.
He had fought in a terrible war, he had sustained wounds to his leg, he had lived through the terror of trenches in which he had seen men dying around him, corpses soaked in mud and blood—but the fear that touched him now, as if with a long chill finger, was more than anything he had experienced in Europe. It was amorphous, he could attribute it to no particular sense perception, it even seemed to exist apart from himself—a fear that beat at him with all the regularity of a heart pounding.
He heard a sound in the kitchen and he turned to look down.
The same agitated shadow was going back and forth.
He turned his head again and continued to climb the stairs.
The whispering grew. The sound it made was undeniable.
The name of the girl whom he had found in this house four years before—
But where, for God’s sake, was the voice coming from?
He reached the landing and he leaned against the wall. The bedroom doors, each of them closed, suggested mysterious boxes he was meant to open if he wanted to discover the secret of this house.
He opened his mouth and, even though he knew it was useless, called aloud, “Elyse! Elyse!”
There was no answer except for the mounting whisper, nothing save the flickering lights that made soft sighing noises as they danced toward extinction.
“Elyse!”
Nothing.
The flames died, then jumped into life again. He realized that the prospect of darkness in this place was the most terrifying thing he could imagine. Darkness. Blindness. Stumbling into—
Into what?
Along the landing.
A door opened slowly.
Very slowly.
The young man stared at it.
He found himself gazing into a bedroom, seeing the edge of a bed, a dressing table, a rug on the floor, a mirror that caught light and threw it back weakly.
In that room, he thought.
That same room.
And he moved toward the open door slowly, conscious of the whispers filling his head, the flames flickering throughout the house, the presences that seemed now to thrust themselves against him.
He knew what he would find in the room.
But even this knowledge didn’t assuage his fear.
He gripped the handle of his cane firmly, as if for courage, and he stepped beyond the door, hearing the sound of laughter that drifted up from a place below.
Those who stood outside the house and gazed toward its illuminated windows saw various shadows pass in front of glass. They heard the wind whip across the sands, and beneath this sound, at some other pitch, there was laughter. Nobody knew whether it was the young man’s laugh or that of some other person. Just as nobody could be certain whose shadows they saw moving inside the house. A screen door flapped in the wind, and in that part of a downstairs room which was visible beyond the door sheet music blew upward from a piano and floated across the floor. The kerosene lights died, then flared again, and when they flickered a second time the house became totally dark and the blackened windows suggested eyes suddenly blinded.
