What goes down

(A gri tale that owes more to Takes from the Crypt than M.R. James)

What goes down…

She was running, dodging round bushes, jumping over brambles, skirting the edges of muddy pools but she knew it was hopeless. From behind her she could hear the shouts of the mob, the barking of dogs and they were getting louder, getting ever closer. She knew they’d no more listen to reason than they’d try and jump over the moon. She knew they would kill her as soon as they caught up; and she was afraid. Not just afraid of dying but afraid of how she’d die. The ragged breath was scorching her throat, her legs were seared with pain but she had to keep going, had to hang onto the vain hope that somehow, she’d outrun them.

Paul Smailes solitary habits had begun at school when the other boys had taunted him. Smailes and snails was too similar in sound for them to pass up an opportunity like that. It was a cruel game and of course the Christian Brothers had joined in the fun and he was forever being encouraged to come out of his shell or being told he was working at a snail’s pace but that was “…only to be expected…”

The fact that his mother had been past forty when she had him and on his birth certificate his father was listed as Unknown had just given them even more ammunition.

He left school at fifteen and landed a job in the local Woolworths as a Shop Boy sweeping up. He rejected all attempts by the other lads to make friends and when he saw one of them lift some sweets of the confectionary counter, reported him to the supervisor. The lad in question was sacked and he got a little bonus that week in his wage packet. The other lads knew it was him and jumped him when he was coming out of work that night. They roughed him up, threatened him, lifted his wage packet and left him with a bloody nose.

Even though he was more than capable of walking, he made a point of collapsing in the street, being helped by some passersby and then telling the police how he’d been ambushed a savagely beaten up. He was also able to provide names.

They were all sent to Borstal. A new set of Shop Boys were recruited and even though he was only sixteen, he was made Charge Hand. He did well and went from that to Floorwalker to Junior Manager (at which point he’d joined the Masons) and finally to Store Manager. His mother had never been entirely sane but as his teens turned into his twenties, thirties and finally, his forties her latent madness came rushing to the surface and at the age of forty-two, he saw her sectioned and within six months, dead.

He’d never really liked or trusted women and had only married because it was expected. So, he’d wooed and won Doreen (who was one of the shopgirls) who was already past thirty and had given up hope; which made her perfect in his eyes. She had no family to speak of, no money of her own and an air of quiet desperation that he could sense the same way a shark can sense blood in the water from miles away.

She’d cooked for him and cleaned for him and lived in fear. In his eyes she could do nothing right. He would find fault even when there was none and every once in a while, throw her face down into an empty bath and while she scrambled desperately to get out, pummel her back so her bruises were always well hidden. They’d been married for seven years and then she’d died. It had been an overdose of sleeping pills and the coroner (a Brother Mason) had returned a “death by misadventure” verdict.

He’d never re-married, never wanted to so lived alone and had a “char” who came in each day, cleaned, made his lunch and did his shopping. He wasn’t troubled by nightmares or insomnia. He wasn’t an imaginative man or given to flights of fancy. He didn’t fall out with his neighbours. He simply avoided them. He never ignored anyone and always responded to a “Good Morning” with one of his own. He just never socialised.

One night, or rather early one morning, he woke from a dreamless sleep needing to get up and go to the toilet. He got out of bed. It had turned chilly and he felt his skin tighten as hurried onto the landing and glanced downstairs. Light from the streetlamps outside shone in through the frosted glass diamond set into his front door and beamed across the hall floor. It was windy out and a sudden gust rattled the front door and he could swear he saw the surface of a patch of shadow at the foot of his stairs ripple.

And then of course, there was the smell. It was faint, a vague odour like a blocked drain. Kitchen sink must be clogged, he thought. That bloody char woman. Idle bitch!

The following day he told that bloody charwoman who was able to demonstrate by simply running the kitchen tap that the sink wasn’t blocked and the drains were working fine cos she’d checked and that if he still wasn’t convinced, he should call in a plumber.

He did but the man could find nothing wrong at all. His drains weren’t clogged but “maybe summat was clogging them but got shifted when your char ran taps. S’rare but it does happen.” Here he’d paused, tugged at his earlobe and then said, “These houses are built on reclaimed wetland so maybe that was it.”

He could swear he could still detect that smell. It was faint but it was there all right; and that night when he got up again and went to the toilet, he could smell it again; quite strongly as well. He looked downstairs into the hall. The same beam of light shone in through the diamond pane set into the front door. There was the same patch of shadow at the foot of the stairs; but then he realised. Not quite the same. It looked bigger.

And so, the pattern repeated itself. Each day he could detect that faint smell (although his char said she couldn’t smell anything) and every night when he woke up needing the toilet he would look downstairs and see that patch of shadow.

He had his eyes tested but his eyesight was fine. He ran taps in his house for a good ten minutes every day, poured disinfectant down the plugholes, did everything he could but that faint aroma persisted.

Summer faded into Autumn. Now, when he got up in the night, he simply avoided looking downstairs; or at least he tried to but some nights the compulsion was just too great. The shadow was there and now it covered the bottom step on his staircase and he could swear there were wisps of fog clinging to its surface.

It was then that she realised that she could hear dogs coming from up ahead as well as behind and now knew for certain that she was doomed. They would take her back to the village, take turns raping her and then she’d be bound hand and foot and thrown into the mere. If she floated, they’d hang her as a witch; if she drowned, they’d shrug their shoulders and walk away.

He was reluctant to talk to anyone about it but in the end, went to see his GP who suggested a break from work. Which, of course, was impossible. October was well underway and the Christmas sell-in period had begun. He asked for, but was refused something to help him sleep.

“You don’t need pills Mr. Smailes,” Doctor Merrow had said, “You need a change of scene for a while.”

Of course, he was furious, went Private and was immediately prescribed very strong sleepers; and for the first week, they worked like a charm. The bad news was that they left him feeling half-asleep the next day. His Junior Manager asked if he was unwell, had noticed his pallor and the fact that he was losing weight. He even went so far as to suggest he should get signed off for a while.

Smailes had responded icily and said if he needed medical advice, he’d consult a Doctor; and of course, he knew the real reason for his underling’s apparent concern.

“I take time off and by the time I get back, he’s doing my job and next thing I’m being eased out,” he muttered to himself as he sipped his morning coffee.

He noticed that when he went into the senior staff canteen, some people stopped talking and others would look at him and then lean together and whisper. It was the same story when he went onto the shop floor.

She could see them now, up ahead; she looked to her side and saw more of them. She could hear them behind her getting ever closer.

Finally, disaster struck. He was on the shopfloor and as he walked past the confectionary counter, he heard one of the girls sniggering so turned and said sharply, “Something amusing you?”

The customers at the counter fell silent and the girl said, “No Mr. Smailes.”

He began shaking with rage. “What did you just call me?”

“Mr. Smailes.”

His voice got louder. “No, you didn’t. You said Mr. Snails!”

“No Sir,” she replied shakily. “I didn’t. Why would I say that?”

The whole shop had fallen silent and every customer in the place was standing stock still and watching.

“Are you calling me a liar!”

“No Sir,” she began, “you must have misheard me.”

“I heard you alright, you little slut!” he shrieked and then slapped her across the face.

The blow knocked her sideways and as she burst into tears, a man stepped out of the crowd and gripped Smailes by the lapel. “You wanna pick on someone your own size mate!” he yelled and was clearly about to punch him when the Junior Manager appeared, pushed his way through and said, “I shall have to ask you to let go of my Manager and let me sort this out.”

The man pushed his face to within two inches of Smailes, hissed, “I’ll remember you!” and let him go.

The girl Smailes had slapped was led away by one of the counter girls to the staff toilets whilst Smailes was frogmarched, none too gently, by two stockroom lads to his own office. He then had to endure the humiliation of his Junior sat in his, Smailes’s chair and telling him that the police might very well have to be involved and that he was suspended until further notice. He was then escorted, again none to gently, to the staff exit at the rear of the store where he was bundled into a waiting taxi and driven home.

The phone didn’t actually ring until seven that night. It was the Area Manager (a Brother Mason) who told him that the girl had agreed to accept a lump sum so at least the police could be kept out of it. It was also thought prudent that he should take sick leave. The cover story being that he was exhausted and needed a break.

There was a pause and then he added, “I’m afraid you won’t be coming back though. You assaulted that girl in front of literally dozens of witnesses and we’ve had God knows how many phone calls from Joe Public demanding you be sacked. I’ve done my best for you but Head Office is most insistent. You’ll get your pension and there’s a generous golden goodbye but it’s the end of the line I’m afraid. You’ll get your final pay cheque at the end of the month,” and with that he rang off.

Smailes was furious and when he tried ringing back, he found he’d been Blocked. He went to his drinks’ cabinet, reached in for the brandy and poured himself a generous measure. It slipped down with ease and so he poured himself another; and there it was again. That damn smell and stronger than ever! He got out of his chair and walked (a little unsteadily) towards the kitchen. The smell was even stronger in the hall. It wasn’t as strong in the kitchen.

He steadied himself against the sink. Strong in the living room, stronger in the hall but not as strong in the kitchen…so maybe it was a cracked out-flow pipe under the house. He consulted his watch. Eight-thirty. Too late to call a plumber now. He thought about opening some windows, air the place but it was raining, raining heavily and getting very windy.

Rain, he thought, rain’s probably flooding the drains so that’s why it’s smelling so bad.

He decided on another drink and headed back into the living-room. The smell in the hall was now so bad, it made him gag. He flopped down in his armchair and poured himself another large brandy. No work in the morning thanks to that little bitch so he might as well get drunk. He knocked the brandy back in one and then poured himself another.

The smell was getting worse and suddenly he felt a rising nausea and knew he was going to vomit. He manged to get up and, hand clamped over his mouth, staggered upstairs and just made it the bathroom in time. The stench in there was even worse. He fell onto his knees and vomited violently. Each time he thought it was done and tried to stand up, he vomited again until finally, stomach muscles aching, throat burning and forehead clamped with icy sweat, he knew he was done.

Using the edge of the toilet bowl for support, he hauled himself to his feet, swung slowly round and supporting himself with one hand on the sink, turned on the cold tap. He leaned forward and scooping up water splashed it onto his face; and then gagged again. The water was foul and there was that stagnant smell again. He left the tap running, managed to reach up and open the window and then staggered back out of the bathroom, along the landing and into his bedroom. He sat down on the edge of his bed, head in hands and waited until the room stopped spinning. The curtains were still open and outside the rain hammered down. He wanted to stand up, open a window, breathe some clean air. Instead, he felt himself falling slowly backwards and sinking into darkness.

No escape; no hope…so get it over with now. Just ahead was a small pond. Get it over with! It looked deep and she prayed it was. As she reached its muddy edge, she made the sign of the cross and began walking in. The mud at the pond’s edge was thicker than she’d realised. As she stepped into it, she sank up to her knees, tried to move forward but instead fell forward and realised it wasn’t just a pond, it was a quagmire and by the time the mob arrived, she was gone.

He woke up suddenly, head aching and hot and the bedroom in semi-darkness. He sat up slowly and clicked on the bedside lamp. Nothing. He got up slowly and carefully, went onto the landing and clicked the light switch there. Nothing and it was the same story with the bathroom. Trip switch, he thought. It was downstairs in the hall. He had a small torch he kept by his bedside table so went back into the bedroom and retrieved it. It was working so he clicked it on and went back onto the landing and shone it downstairs. He could see the shadow at the foot of the stairs but when he shone the torchlight directly onto it, instead of penetrating it, the light simply vanished into it.

And then it began to stir.

As he watched, frozen now to the spot, a dome formed and rose slowly out of its centre. As it emerged, he saw what looked like mud-soaked hair hanging down on either side of it. Two thin hands attached to two thin arms reached out to either side of the pool-shadow and palms down, pressed against the carpet so a torso forced its way out. He wanted to run, to scream and was vaguely aware of a warm stream of urine running down his leg as the torso began pulling itself up onto the stairs. Now its legs emerged and as its feet came free, he heard a sucking noise like a wellington boot being pulled out of thick mud. He wanted to scream but his throat closed, his legs refused to move as the figure began to stand and then slowly mount the stairs towards him.

His char arrived next morning at eight prompt and the first thing she noticed was the smell; a foul blend of urine and faeces coming from upstairs. The second thing was Smailes, sat bolt upright with his back against the landing wall, eyes wide, mouth open and what looked like thick dry mud overflowing out of it, over his chin and down his shirt front.