Читать книгу Shadow Casting - Paul Kane - Страница 9

SHADOW WRITER

I listened to the slapping of water against the boat as great oars propelled me onwards. At any other time I would have found it relaxing, but I was far too excited by the prospect of that which awaited me. Excited and yet strangely anxious.

Had it only been last week when the letter arrived on my desk at the Daily Herald? It seemed like several lifetimes ago. I remember being puzzled by the unique handwriting on the front of the envelope, curling and intricate. Hardly anyone hand-wrote envelopes these days, especially people who corresponded with me. Most printed out their names and addresses using a computer, or simply used email.

But this was nothing compared to the surprise I experienced when I opened it and started reading.

Dear Mr Regis, it said in that same wonderful hand, My sources inform me that you are one of my biggest fans in this country. Therefore, I am granting you the opportunity of coming to my home to interview me, alone of course. If you are interested in accepting my offer, please confirm this by writing to the above P.O. Box address. I urge you not to speak of this to anyone yet, not even your editor at The Herald. I will know if you do so and the offer will be withdrawn at once. Yours sincerely, Herbert Lynch.

At first I believed it to be a joke of some kind. My colleagues were fully aware of the love I had for Lynch’s books: his many, extraordinary books. I thought one of them had forged the note to provoke me.

Everyone knew the horror author never gave interviews—no one had even seen him for decades—but something at the back of my mind told me to remain silent. If the letter really was genuine, I could spoil everything by confronting my bewildered workmates. So I decided to write back. Nothing ventured ...

Then, several days later, I received blunt instructions telling me roughly when I could meet with Lynch and where he was residing: near a small village along the coastline called Rath’s End. Surely none of my friends would go to this much trouble to trick me, I thought. This was real. I was actually going to meet with my life-long literary idol. Not only that, but I was also going to be the first journalist ever to interview the enigmatic recluse.

Ever since I can recall I’ve read, collected and enjoyed Lynch’s dark fiction. The author’s style is unrivalled by his contemporaries—a blend of old and new, with chilling consequences for the reader. His stories, of things in the shadows (hence his nickname the “Shadow Writer”), strange creatures beyond our imagination, ghosts and demons, hellish realms and nightmare landscapes, had come alive in the pages of untold novels and anthologies over the last half a century.

Envied and imitated by other scribes, yet loved and adored by fans in their millions around the world, Herbert Lynch was the voice of horror in the world today. So you can imagine my joy at hearing he’d invited me to his very home, the location of which was a closely guarded secret. I should know, I’ve been trying to discover it for years. And now it had just fallen into my lap with no effort at all. I suppose I could have sold the address on for a small fortune, but didn’t wish to betray the man’s confidence. Anyway, I had no intentions of passing this opportunity up.

I could only assume that he—or someone close to him—must have seen one of my articles. Lynch being something of an obsession of mine, I tended to write about him whenever the opportunity arose. Usually when a new hardback appeared on the shelves or as Hallowe’en descended upon us once more.

The last piece I’d penned was a retrospective of his entire back catalogue, a daunting task for any other journalist, I’m sure. In it I compared his prose to that of the grand master of modern horror literature, 19th century writer Sir Horace Fenshaw, plus other well-known voices in the field such as turn of the century scaremonger James Weir. I drew parallels between their styles and argued that Lynch was indeed a worthy successor to the throne, having updated, as well as embellished upon, their terrifying work.

Perhaps he had been flattered by the comparisons, who knows? If so, then I would die a very happy man because it was Lynch who indirectly inspired me to take up writing in the first place. In my teens I tried to copy him, coming up with my own macabre stories. But the talent just wasn’t there; even I could see that. Dejected, I turned to non-fiction instead, figuring it to be the next best thing.

As it turned out I was right, and over the years I’ve managed to carve out a modest little niche for myself. Now, finally, all that hard work was paying off. My mentor—in all but presence—wished to see me, and only me!

I badgered my editor for some time away from the office, promising him it would be worth his while in the long run.

“Hot scoop, Stephen?” he asked, half-jokingly.

“Could be, boss. Could be. I can’t say any more right now.” He must have seen that look in my eye, the one that meant his circulation would increase if he went along, because eventually he agreed.

“Take as much time as you need, but The Herald gets exclusive rights.”

And off I went, driving up to Rath’s End without further delay—only calling at my flat to grab a few essential items of clothing, my Dictaphone (no camera, as he expressly forbid me to take photographs) and, of course, a bundle of books for him to sign.

The drive was uneventful enough through miles of countryside, but as I careered along I began to feel a nervous flutter deep inside. I put this down to the fact that I hadn’t really prepared for the interview. Just what would I ask this man when I came face to face with him? I quickly suppressed these concerns for the time being and concentrated on the road ahead. It would be a moot point if I rolled the car into a ditch and missed my opportunity. I hoped that when the time came I could play it by ear without looking too much of an idiot.

The journey took nearly a day to complete, by which time it was almost dusk. I eventually stumbled upon a small tavern in Rath’s End where I would spend the night pacing in my room, attempting—unsuccessfully—to bring some order to my thoughts. I concluded that the most important question would be about Lynch’s vast fortune. What exactly did he do with all his money, the cash he made from royalties, films rights and so on? The rumours I’d heard seemed to indicate that he didn’t spend any of it but, naturally, these may have been exaggerated. It was a crude subject, I know. Nevertheless, it was one which many people would be interested in ... myself included. I vowed to broach the topic early on in my interview.

When morning came I was up with the sun, refreshed despite only catching a few hours’ sleep. I enquired about the address on my piece of paper and the proprietor of the tavern laughed out loud, pointing me in the direction of a salty looking man outside. A fellow I would come to call Jack.

“Course I know where it is! But you won’t get there on foot,” he growled. “Nor in that flash car of yours.” With the best will in the world I’d hardly have called my car flash.

“What do you mean?”

Jack said nothing more. Instead he merely nodded over the sea in the direction of a small outcropping shrouded in thick, grey mist. I could just about make out the shape of a rectangular structure perched precariously on those rocks. The ocean swelled around this place and no matter how hard I looked, I could see no route on or off that barren “island”.

“It’s completely cut off,” I gasped. “How am I supposed to get across there?”

Jack chuckled and turned to me. “This is your lucky day. I’ll take you in my rowing boat ... For a small fee that is.”

Lucky day, my foot. Jack let it slip that he sometimes delivered letters and essential supplies to Lynch. I began to suspect he’d been waiting for me by the tavern that morning. He’d probably opened and read the exchange of letters before posting them on. But he was my only option, and by this time I was desperate to meet with Lynch. He could have fired me over in a cannon for all I cared.

I transferred my belongings into Jack’s boat and we set off within the hour. My companion on this fairly lengthy trip said very little on the way, which was fine with me. It gave me more time to think of what to say when I arrived, and what to ask. If only I’d had more warning I could have—

But what was the use in thinking like that? I was here now, nearly upon my destination. It was too late for making plans and last minute notes.

The closer we got, the more of Lynch’s house became visible. The curtains of fog parted for us, allowing me to fully take in the shape of this mansion—for now I saw it was a dark, stone, gothic building in keeping with his trade. I shivered slightly.

“Second thoughts?” Jack asked, his back to the place. I didn’t answer him. I was nervous, certainly, but only due to the enormity of the task, not because of some mock facade of a house which had probably been constructed by builders at Lynch’s request. It all helped perpetuate his esoteric image.

At last the boat came up to those jagged rocks. Jack steered his vessel so close I thought he would actually hit them, but he seemed to miss by a mile when the time came.

“I’ll take my money now.” There was no feeling in his voice. A little greed perhaps, but that was all. Reluctantly, I handed him the promised amount. He snatched the notes from me, counting them with nimble fingers.

“When are you coming back?” I asked as I climbed out of the rocking timber, dragging my holdalls behind me. It was a question that had been nagging me since we passed through the fog.

“I’ll know when it’s time.”

“Wait a minute—” I called after him, but it was too late. Already he was rowing away, his strokes swift and sure, hands pulling the shafts much faster than he had on the way over. His attitude annoyed me. What if he came back before I’d finished? Or, worse still, returned days later by which time Lynch would be sick of the sight of me? Well, there was nothing to do now but make my way to his door. Part of me wanted to rush, and another part was calling for me to take my time—savour the moment. In the end the former won, although I did hesitate before raising my hand to knock, my palms sweating and my heart muscle hammering away inside my chest.

In that instant the door opened inwards, even before my knuckles could strike the wood. The hinges creaked impressively. He certainly didn’t do things by half, Mr Lynch.

“Er ... Hello,” I murmured into the black interior, feeling a mild sense of trepidation. Such were my nerves on this momentous occasion.

A voice cut through the gloom, eerie and almost non-existent compared with my own. “Come in, Mr Regis.”

I laughed but it came out more like a mewl. I was beginning to feel like I was in one of Lynch’s books. Any moment now the mad axe-man would appear, or maybe some sort of creature would lay its vile tongue on my neck, savouring the taste of its next victim.

“M-Mr Lynch, is that you?”

“Yes. Now come in and shut the door behind you.”

I did as he requested, but only when I moved further into the hall did I lay eyes on Herbert Lynch himself, his form suddenly revealed to me. There was very little light in the house, but somehow I saw him as clearly as a firework on bonfire night. He was a small, stooping figure with very short arms that hung straight down at his sides. His face was the shape of a light bulb, with curly white hair on top and memories of what had once been a full beard scratching around under his chin. The man’s Iguana-like eyes bulged out, as if the pressure inside his head was too great, and when he finally smiled his golden teeth seemed far too big for his mouth.

I had imagined Lynch to be in his mid-60s, for word had it he started writing at an early age. But the person in front of me was at least twenty years older than that. Lines traced curving patterns across his throat and cheeks, the skin there rippling with folds. And when he turned to walk up the hallway, it was with slow, careful movements: those of an ancient man who was frightened of breaking his brittle bones.

Leaving my bags behind, I followed him to a large drawing room. There was a gigantic arched window on the far side, though incredibly it was still dark—the mist preventing all but a sliver of sunlight to pass through. However, my eyes soon became accustomed to the gloom. Lynch shuffled over to a grand rectangular table with carved legs and a polished surface. He sat at the head, waving me over with his left hand.

As I approached, I noticed that two places had been set for dinner: the host’s and my own. On the table were covered silver trays.

“Are you hungry, Mr Regis? I thought we might eat together.” He looked at me intently, inspecting every movement I made. Daring me to reject his hospitality.

“I ... That’s most kind of you. Please, call me Stephen.”

“Very well. And you may call me Herbert, though it isn’t my given name.” The teeth appeared again.

Now this really was interesting. I’d always suspected Lynch used a pseudonym, that’s why nobody could find out anything about him. This was the proof I needed to confirm my theory. Maybe I’d even find out what his real name was ... But I was taking things too fast. Slow down and enjoy your meal, I said to myself.

I sat at the table next to Lynch and he immediately lifted the lids off those trays to reveal a superb spread consisting of roast chicken, potatoes and other assorted vegetables, all piping hot.

“Help yourself. It’s not often I get callers out here.” His tone was melancholy and for just a split second I realised what his life must be like in the house. Day after day, just writing, never seeing a soul. The life of a loner.

Still, it was by his own choice. Or was it? Had the poor man been driven here by his fame? Forced to shut himself away because he was so good at his chosen career? Maybe he was agoraphobic; Lord knows the pressures of the outside world are enough to make anyone run screaming from the crowds and cities. It would certainly explain a few things. Another question for later.

I silently chewed my chicken, seeing the man I’d admired all my life in a new light.

The meal was delicious, but Lynch didn’t leave it at that. He insisted on showing me around the great house itself, a tour which lasted most of the afternoon and intruded upon early evening.

It was definitely a breathtaking, if somewhat depressing, abode (I quickly realised that the outside was not a front at all) and Lynch took great pleasure in recanting some of its history. How it had been built at the end of the eighteenth century by two French architects, who’d fled to England after revolution engulfed their homeland. How they had erected it in one of the most isolated spots in the country because they found it an effort to mix with the nobility in London. And how the place had been the envy of Sir Horace Fenshaw—who covertly acquired the property in 1830.

“You mean Fenshaw actually lived here?” I was amazed by this revelation.

“He spent some time here writing, yes.”

“I suppose that’s one of the reasons why you bought the place.”

Lynch looked vacant for a moment. “Oh, I didn’t buy the house. It was ... left to me.”

“I see.” In all honesty I didn’t, but I was sure I’d find out more when I questioned him.

Except the interview would have to wait a while it seemed. Lynch had just finished showing me around the vast library when he stopped to comment on the lateness of the hour. I hadn’t noticed, but it was now even darker outside thanks to the onset of night. The house had no electricity, he explained, so I watched as the author lit several lamps here and there along the hall. The thin patches of light created shadowy patterns on the walls, which danced as if to a tuneless beat.

When that was done, he told me he was going to start work now—writing in longhand, which was actually common knowledge—and we could conduct the interview at dawn. I was eager to begin there and then, but had little choice in the matter. If I argued, then he might refuse to speak to me at all. Anyway, if he was writing then that could only mean more material for me to devour the next time I was in my local bookshop.

“Goodnight, Stephen,” he said, warmly. “It was nice to have met you.” Then Lynch made his way to a room adjacent to the library. His private writing chamber.

Left alone, I decided to take my holdalls up to the bedroom Lynch had provided for me. It was still dark upstairs and, despite reason telling me otherwise, I felt afraid of the blackness. It seemed oppressive, as if I might lose myself in it, never to be seen again. Being in the presence of a master horror-smith has set your imagination racing, I told myself. There’s nothing there in the dark that isn’t there in the daylight. Somehow that thought only served to chill me more.

The steps creaked loudly as I made my way higher, another cliché of the highest order. But fears I had shrugged off whilst reading Lynch’s books were not so easily dismissed now. The sounds of this house made me edgy and by the time I reached the landing my heartbeat was up once more.

There was an indistinct noise to my right, just along from the banisters. A clawing sound. Rats, perhaps? But this was followed by definite movement. I could feel a closeness here, a figure. No, several figures.

“Who’s there?” My speech was croaky, hoarse with the burden of coaxing the question out. I knew there was no one else in the house, just Lynch and I. Unless someone had been hiding when he showed me around—

Then I heard the voices. Quiet, almost muffled, voices; one on top of the other until they became incomprehensible. I couldn’t determine their direction, they were all around me, whispering, chattering with a mind-numbing resolve. It became hard to tell whether they were on the inside or outside of my head. At times it felt like both.

I dropped my baggage on the landing and gripped the rail, a sudden queasiness taking hold of me. The figures were moving again, shifting about on the walls, the floors. Blocking the way to my room and sliding towards me at the same time. It was like they were almost there, but not quite. I had trouble focusing on them—for one thing the incessant whispering was driving me mad, but there was also the absence of light to contend with.

It wasn’t until they came within feet of me that I ran, descending the stairs so briskly I was lucky not to have tripped and broken my neck. The funny thing was, the closer I came to the lamps in the hall, the more ridiculous the whole episode seemed to me. Like a dream that felt real at the time, but merely foolish once the dreamer has awoken. The voices were gone and when I looked up there was no sign of any living shadows up above. I bowed my head and sighed, grateful at least that Lynch hadn’t been here to witness my stupidity.

I was just about to climb the stairs again when the crying started. It was coming from Lynch’s study. Quickly, I dashed along the corridor to the door he’d closed not five minutes ago. I put my ear against the oak and the wailing grew louder. Yes, it was Lynch I could hear on the other side of that barricade. And in between the sobs he was talking; talking to someone inside there with him! I might have been mistaken, but the longer I listened the more his cries sounded like urgent pleas.

A sharp bang interrupted the grief. The callous crack of gunfire.

Then silence.

Without hesitation, I tried the door. It was locked. I rapped on the wood and shouted: “Mr Lynch? Mr Lynch, are you all right in there? Please open the door!”

There was no answer, but my request was granted all the same. The door suddenly flew inwards, seemingly pulled back by invisible wires. For now, by the light of another small lamp, I could see Lynch lying face down next to his desk. My first thought was that he’d been murdered ... possibly by the person he was arguing with. Yet as I stepped inside I saw a pistol in his own frail hand, which itself was bent horribly round by the angle of the fall. If I had been thinking straight, I might have wondered where he’d found the strength to pull its trigger.

In shock I put my hands to my mouth, stifling a scream, my breath coming in short spasms. I tore my eyes away from Lynch to look around the room, only to discover it empty. No one had been in here at all. Lynch must have been talking to himself, convincing himself to proceed, or attempting to stop the inevitable from happening. All these years spent alone, writing about the unimaginable, had finally taken their toll. A sudden thought occurred to me. Perhaps this was the reason he’d sent for me, so his last hours would not be spent alone. And so he’d have someone to pick up the pieces after his death, arrange the funeral and so on.

Slowly, I approached the body and felt his neck for a pulse. There was none. My attention then travelled to his desk where I saw a journal open and an ink pen laid on top as if he’d been writing something. His suicide note?

But no. When I looked at the last thing he’d written—in his unmistakable style—I found it to be my own name coupled with today’s date, placed beneath a list of other names and dates. The one before mine was from five years ago, a man called David Kramer. All visitors to the house, I supposed. But when I turned a page, the dates and monikers stretched back as far as 1830—to Sir Horace Fenshaw. What did all this mean?

I did not have time to ponder this mystery because the voices I had heard upstairs chose that moment to return. To begin with they were just as jumbled as before, but strangely they were louder in volume. And as I listened, sat behind the desk in Lynch’s still-warm leather chair, they separated—becoming individual—each one giving me instructions.

I tried to resist their demands, gritting my teeth until I thought I would pass out. But my efforts were in vain. I had to obey them, do as they commanded. Taking the ink pen in my hand, I reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began to write. To my surprise the words flowed easily: sentences, paragraphs, soon pages of prose, all in Lynch’s old-fashioned handwriting.

And the more I wrote, the more I became aware of the things from upstairs flocking to my desk, converging there and gathering around my body. The voices were telling me exactly what to put down, I knew that, yet I felt some part of me was actually contributing to the story. All my life I’d wanted to write horror like Lynch, and now I was—exactly like him. The elation was at once substituted for pure terror, though, as I read the content of the tale I’d committed to paper.

Since that first night I’ve uncovered more of the secrets of this place, and the thought of what I’ve become appals me. I’ve managed to piece it all together, what has happened, what has been happening here for the last two centuries. They leave me virtually alone in the day you see, my new masters, so I’ve had plenty of time to conduct research in the vast library here.

What Lynch failed to tell me about the French architects who constructed this house was that they were both members of a universal group called “The Order of the Shadows” —devotees of the black arts who follow what is known as the left-hand path.

They needed an isolated spot, not just because they failed to fit in on these shores, but also to keep their bloodthirsty activities a secret. Rituals they used to call forth unfathomable things in the dead of night. Things that remain here to this day.

Sir Horace Fenshaw had been the first writer to encounter the men, and in exchange for ideas for his narratives, in effect his fame, he gave them money. A donation to the Order. But exposure to the demonic forces caused him to die prematurely, as no man can listen to the voices for long before insanity claims him. However, prior to his death Fenshaw was charged with finding a replacement, someone to write in his place, using his name—a new cipher for the tenebrous ones to exploit.

And so it continued like this, a small army of writers—one following the next—for almost fifty years. Then a new pseudonym was adopted: James Weir. A second cover so more stories could be sold and the Order would become strong. This name would be used for another five decades, until it was time for Herbert Lynch to emerge.

I have the “privilege” of being the last man to assume his identity, the latest addition to the list. In one joyless moment the other week, I even went so far as to sign the books I’d brought here myself. I am being used as a tool for evil, just like the man who greeted me when I came here: David Kramer.

There is nothing I can do about it; I cannot leave this place, cannot make contact with anyone on the mainland. All I can do is write more frightful stories (stories I now know to be true!). At night, always at night.

Jack sometimes comes to the island. I see him through the window as he leaves me supplies and takes away my latest manuscripts to be published. But he never comes in. He, too, is one of their servants, I have learned.

If my predecessor is anything to go by I have but five more years of this left, before all my energy is sapped, my hair turns silver and I become completely unstable—so far gone that the only way to end it all will be with a bullet. I’ll have to send for a replacement first, of course. Someone worthy. By that time a new pseudonym will have been chosen by the Order. The successor to Herbert Lynch who will take his work well into the new millennium.

I’ve already written more text than I care to remember—every day losing another piece of myself in the pages. The spark of life that was once present in my eyes is being extinguished over time.

And in case you’re wondering what I set down on that very first night when the demons took me, changing me forever; well, it was the account you now hold in your hands: my story. I don’t expect any of you reading this will believe me—indeed, the Order wouldn’t have let it be published if they thought that. But I know the truth. I can vouch for its authenticity.

I suppose that’s what scares me the most. When I realise people will look upon it as simply entertainment, like I once did. As fiction, and nothing more. My God, if you could only experience one hour—one night—of my life as the Shadow Writer, shut away here all alone ...

But then, if you’re reading this, if you’re a devout follower of “my” work, maybe one day the summons will come.

Then you just might get your chance.