Twyford Lodge - Part I

                                                             

        Twyford Lodge

(Edited 11th Aug 2010) 

  James Powell shut off the ignition of his BMW three series and peered through the rain pelted windshield. A Victorian mansion loomed before him, its gothic towers and arched, stained-glass windows giving it the appearance of an eccentric church. A weather vane spun furiously atop the pointed turret. 

  He clicked his aching neck into place and reached behind him, yanking a bulging sports bag from the back seat. A flash of lightening lit the sky and the gargoyle gutter spouts grinned menacingly before falling into shadow. “One, two, three . . .” He counted the seconds. Thunder exploded all around and he looked across to the line of poplars that battled against the rising gale, swaying like drunken giants.

  A vibration distracted him. ‘Aunty Zahra,’ the luminous phone display glowed. He flipped open the phone, “Hello Aunty, how are you? . . . Ok, ok, yeah I just pulled up actually, this minute, there’s a terrible storm blowing . . . yeah . . . ok, ok . . . ahh, I hope it won’t delay your flight Aunty . . . ok . . . yes note in the kitchen . . ok, ok . . . thanks a lot Aunty, you and Uncle have a great trip now, no need to worry. Bring me back something Russian! . . . ok, you too, take care now.” He pocketed the phone into his swish leather jacket, along with a packet of unopened George V cigars he retrieved from the glove compartment.

  A sudden jolt shook the car. James leapt back in fright. “Jesus Christ,” he grabbed his chest in shock, before cracking a nervous laugh. “Bloody hell . . .”

He opened the door as the Alsatian bounded over, gravel crunching under its great paws. Leaping up at the newcomer, James greeted the pet like an old friend, “Hello Billy! How are you?” He ruffled its soaking head with his free hand, “How are you boy? Ay? Come on. Come on.” James sprinted across to the sheltered porch as gel flavoured rain poured into his mouth. The friendly guard dog followed, tail wagging like a hairy windscreen wiper.

  Reaching into his jeans pocket, he found the large key he sought and plunged it into the lock, turning it sharply. The iron-studded, oak door creaked open.

Billy padded in, dripping onto the faded orange tiles as James shut the door behind him. He slid his bag beneath a mahogany side-table, on which a tasseled lampshade rested, emitting a soft glow along the corridor, and up the stairs before him. It’s so quiet. 

  Slipping his shoes off, James slung his coat over the period radiator and walked through the spacious corridor towards the kitchen, from where a dim light shone.

  He pushed the door open. A wave of warm air rushed over his face as he rubbed his hands together in delight. The Aga clinked as he entered, its embracing heat radiating from the back of the kitchen towards him.

He walked across the flagstones and opened the wood-paneled fridge. “Yes, you diamond aunty,” he exclaimed. A range of microwavable treats, aimed to please young men, filled the shelves, along with a selection of specialist ales and bars of chocolate. “Now that’s some good study munch. You really are the best Aunty.” 
 
As he crammed a sausage roll into his mouth, a sheet of paper on the granite breakfast bar caught his eye. It was written in his aunt’s sprawling hand: ‘Dearest nephew, we hope you enjoy your stay here at the lodge. Nothing has changed much since you last came. There isn’t too much to do; just feed and walk the dog twice a day, don’t forget to mix the cereal with water. The gardener comes on a Wednesday and could you please put the rubbish out on the Friday, at the end of the drive. If there is anything left in the fridge when we get back I’ll be very offended! Happy studying dearest nephew! From Russia with Love, Aunty Zahra & Uncle David!’

  “Here Billy! Come on boy,” James beckoned in a high pitched voice. The Alsatian sauntered in from the adjacent utility room with a curious expression on its face, tongue lolling lazily over its jaws. Kneeling down, he dried the beast with two warm hand-towels, talking affectionately all the while.

  Abruptly, its demeanour changed. The muscles tensed beneath its dark coat as its ears pricked up. A deep growl emanated from its throat.

“Easy boy, easy, what is it?” The dog bolted into the hallway as if released from a trap, paws slipping on the tiles as its bark bounced off the walls. “Shhhh Billy, shhhh!” James yelled, grabbing the dog by the collar as he cornered it behind the front door. He pulled back the net curtain of the corridor window and stared into the darkness. Nothing. A deafening bark echoed around the house. “Shhh!” James scolded. “There’s no one there Billy.” Another bark. “Fine!”

James slid back the two iron bolts and pulled the creaking door open.

  An icy wind blustered in as Billy broke free of his grip. “Billy! Come here! Billy!” James yelled, stepping into the porch. Night had spread its dark wings and the dog disappeared into shadow, its bark fading on the freezing gale. “You bloody stupid mut. Billy! Billy!” He whistled in vain but the dog did not return. This is why I hate dogs. Reluctantly, he shut the door. He’ll turn up when he’s hungry. There’s a kennel out there anyway.

  The house was eerily quiet. Only the drumming of heavy rain on the bay windows and the gentle tick-tocking of a Grandfather Clock could be heard above the howling wind.

  The painting beside him caught his eye, illuminated by the dim lampshade on the side-table. It was an oil-on-canvas woodland scene, the dawn’s rays banishing the mist. Then, he saw a detail he never before noticed, in the very corner of the painting.

A small girl stood alone in the forest, looking over her shoulder, as if fleeing an unseen pursuer. Strange, I never noticed that before . . . He lifted his finger up to touch the textured painting, but refrained from doing so at the last; his finger hovering above the fleeing girl.
   
  Dismissing the thought, James grabbed his bag and headed up the carpeted steps to the first floor landing, where an arched window with a lead lattice overlooked the front garden.

Pressing his broad nose against the pane, he looked into the darkness beyond. The red car alarm light blinked silently. There was no sign of the dog. Forked lightening streaked across the night sky and a shudder shot down his spine.

  He walked across the squeaky floorboards to the largest of the four spare bedrooms. The door was open and he flicked on the light switch. The cream room was simply furnished with a chest of drawers, wicker chair and a double bed with a flowery duvet. Photos of his extended family hung from the walls. Placing the sports bag on the bed he unzipped it, and pulled free a bottle of single malt scotch and a hefty book on tort law. He checked his Tag, six twenty three, and headed back downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen.

  Three ice cubes tumbled into the crystal glass followed by a generous slosh of Scotland’s finest. Inhaling the sweet scent, James stopped short of sampling the liquor, his mouth watering at the prospect. I’ll have to earn this first. Book under arm, he made for the drawing room.

  The room was a peculiar hexagonal shape, owing to the bespoke nature of the house, with a high ceiling, large bay windows and restored oak floorboards. The furnishings were modern, bar the antique globe cocktail cabinet, which stood proudly beside the forty four inch Sony widescreen. An open fire had been readied for his arrival; the coal bucket was full and a plentiful supply of logs was piled in front of the large, stone fireplace. 

  He placed his drink and tattered book on the glass coffee table and drew the heavy purple curtains shut, the lead weights rattling as he did so. A tall lampshade with swinging tassels illuminated the room, the angles casting long, finger-like shadows across the yellowed ceiling. Igniting the fire-lighters with Cook’s matches, James sat down on the duck-egg blue sofa, put his legs up, and opened up his textbook.

  “Ahh,” he sighed, “negligence; Jones verses Teague 1972. . . great.” His face was set in a frown of concentration for several hours, interrupted fleetingly by the pleasurable sip of ice cold whiskey at the end of every chapter; savouring each malty swig like it was his last. The fire crackled delightfully at his feet as the storm raged ever fiercer. Ahhh, he thought, the smell of an open fire is hard to best.
 
He checked his watch again as tiredness stole over him, ten seventeen, and closed the book for the evening, sighing with relief as he flicked on the TV and drained the last dregs of scotch, though it was more melted ice that liquor.

A modelesque weather-lady spoke in pressing tones, “. . . a severer weather warning has been issued for the south west tonight, with gales expected to reach up to eighty miles-per-hour with flooding in localised areas . . .”

  Pouring himself a generous glass, James stretched out on the sofa and reached across for the matches. “Ahh . . . nothing like a herbal smoke to relax after a long, long day.” Pulling a cone shaped case out of his pocket, he tapped the pre-rolled joint into his palm, and paced it between expectant lips. 

As flame lit paper and dried plants ignited, a thick, creamy smoke filled the room, accompanied by a satisfied groan as James sunk into the sofa, utterly content. “My last one for six long weeks, I better enjoy it.” Swilling the scotch in his smoke filled mouth he relished the sensation as flavours collided. He muted the TV, shut his eyes, and listened to the crackle of flames above the storm outside. Tapping the joint into the ashtray on the pouffe, he crossed his feet and smoked away his exam worries, sinking into the cushions.

  Then, he heard a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. The creaking of a floorboard from the room above. “Holy shit,” he whispered, sitting bolt upright. Again, longer this time. “Whoa! What the hell was that?” James leapt to his feet, spilling the whiskey to the floor and over his crotch.

  Wrenching the poker free from its stand, he held it over his shoulder, ready to strike. His head swam as weed and whiskey slowed his mind. He paused in the centre of the room, collected himself, and listened again; eyes trying to stare through the ceiling, imagining an intruder mere meters above. His heart raced as if sprinting uphill.

A howling wind rattled down the flue. He gulped. Man, I have to give this shit up; must be the storm affecting the old beams. 

  Nervously, James approached the doorway and pulled back the door, an inch at a time. A frigid draught greeted him as he peered into the corridor and the floor felt as ice under his feet. What was that? He listened. Nothing. Just the clock and the storm and the fire. Thud. A definite sound caused his heart to leap. Bloody hell . . . He paused again as sweat pricked at his temples. Silence.

  Creeping towards the stairs, poker at the ready, James looked up towards the first floor landing. Get a grip. Carefully, he ascended the old stairway, fearing a sudden creak would betray his position. He stopped midway along the staircase and listened again. A violent gust blasted the window above him, howling like a banshee. This is ridiculous. The lights flickered wildly and an electronic buzz cut through the air. 

  Oh shit! You’ve got to be kidding me! Instinctively, he crouched low to the stairs, heart thudding as frantic eyes probed the darkness. A sudden knock on the window above startled him, but it was just the wind blown branches of the old oak tree. He gulped back a rising fear.

  Then, there it was – as loud as a hammer smashing a skull – the creaking of a floor board from the third floor. Oh-my-god. He held his breath, mind blank with fear. Another creak – long and slow. Unmistakable. A clap of thunder shook the sky. 

  Something moved in the corner of his eye. Turning sharply, he looked up towards the landing, eyes wide as plates. Lightening ripped through the darkness and in that instant he saw it. Standing atop the landing a young girl appeared before him in an ephemeral nightgown. Her head was lowered to the floor and matted hair spilled over her chest, emaciated arms hung limp at her side. Transfixed by fear, James froze like a statue, disbelieving.

  Slowly, the apparition raised her head. James gasped in horror at the sickening sight before him. Maggots spilled from a gaping wound in her neck that was so large and deep he could see her spinal column through the wriggling gore. Her hollow eyes bore through him like blades. 

  Thunder boomed, drowning his scream as he fell backwards down the stairs, the poker hurtling though the air and crashing unseen along the corridor. Air rushed from his lungs in an instant. He gasped for breath, unable to move as the specter descended. “No . . .”

  Suddenly, his legs responded to desperate commands. He darted towards the front door; throwing it open with such force he smashed the lampshade to the floor and burst into the storm.

Sprinting across the gravel to his car, he desperately searched his empty pockets. “Shit!” He bellowed. Panic seized him like a vice.

  Shielding his gaze from the driving rain, he looked back towards the Lodge, shaking wildly. His mouth fell slack in disbelief, his mind refusing to accept the image his eyes relayed.

The ghost stood in the doorway, her flowing nightgown shimmering against the pitch black surroundings, her brown hair matted, pale cheeks gaunt from hunger. He stumbled back against the car, heart in mouth. “No . . .” he stammered, fixated on the advancing horror.

  A bolt of lightening struck the roof but James held his gaze, paralysed by fear. She moved towards him, floating silently over the gravel. He tried to move but his feet were as roots in the earth. Closer, the specter advanced, its pallid form unaffected by the howling gale. His scream stuck in his throat like a twig and only a pitiful whimper rattled into the storm. He pressed himself against the car.

  “Leave me alone!” James screamed into the storm, hysterical. The girl neared, until but feet away. Her mouth opened impossibly wide; ever wider until her face was a vast hole of gore. A piercing scream filled the night. . .