The Fatal Strand by Robin Jarvis

Author:Robin Jarvis [Jarvis, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult, Childrens, Science Fiction, Horror, Fiction, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780006750147
Publisher: Collins
Published: 1997-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17 - Within the Girdling Mist

The candles in The Tiring Salon had all burned themselves out. With his copy of Billy Bunter lying open on the table, his head drooped over his chest, Austen Pickering was fast asleep. The miniature spools of the cassette in the tape recorder revolved idly, nearly winding to the end of their allotted length.

Through the spacious expanse of that long gallery a darkened figure moved, and only the headless mannequins were witness to its shambling presence. Icy vapour steamed from chill lips, and wheezing sighs turned the already wintry air even colder. Over the bare floorboards, where once the Webster sisters had danced, heavy footsteps dragged, shuffling close to where the ghost hunter sat slumbering peacefully.

A bleak shadow fell over Mr Pickering's face and his flesh crawled in the supreme cold as the slow, stumbling figure crept nearer to stand over him. The old man's spectacles, askew on his nose, misted over when the intruder's reflection appeared in the lenses.

From pallid blue lips a hollow moan issued, and Austen Pickering grumbled in his sleep. 'No such thing as ectoplasm,' he burbled through chattering teeth. 'All muslin and mummery.'

With a loud click, the tape machine came to the end of the cassette and snapped itself off. Suddenly, the ghost hunter jolted awake and he shivered, huffing on to his freezing hands.

Reaching for the torch, he flashed it around the room, but his glasses were frosted over and he spent a couple of minutes breathing hard upon them before he could see.

On edge, he swept the bright beam about the gallery, the playful attitudes of the mannequins alarming in the swiftly moving spotlight. But The Tiring Salon was now empty.

Shining the torch on his watch the old man scribbled down the time. 'Twenty-to-five,' he said aloud. 'Hell's bells, it's cold.'

Bringing the light to bear on the thermometer, Mr Pickering gave an exclamation of surprise. 'Minus four!' he breathed. 'Time for another coffee, I reckon.'

Unscrewing the lid of the thermos, the old man absently rewound the tape machine several minutes and replayed what had been recorded. The hiss of an empty room blasted out into the gallery but, when he was sipping his coffee and warming his hands on the plastic cup, Mr Pickering heard those laboured, trawling footsteps as they first came into the room.

Looking up from his steaming beverage, he shone the torch over to where the noises on the tape suggested the mysterious interloper had entered. Holding his breath, he listened as the machine continued. Closer the painful-sounding, hobbling footfalls had come and, in spite of the cold, a speckling perspiration glistened over the old man's forehead.

The recorded sounds came over to where he was sitting, and he flashed the torch about the room once more, just to double-check he was alone. Then, over the speaker he heard a deathly murmur, and the steps dragged away towards the nearby door.

Again the machine ran out of tape and the button clicked off.

Rising from the seat, the ghost hunter hurried across the room and looked out on to the landing.

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