“We’ve landed on our feet,” said Dan.
He was refilling his tumbler, spraying soda from an antique siphon. “Go easy, yeah?”
“Sure, sure.”
They raised their glasses. “To rescue.”
It was a relief to see Dan in a better mood. He was into hiking and climbing and their mishap this afternoon had wounded his pride. Philip had never imagined fog could overtake them so fast. One moment they were in holiday spirits surrounded by reaches of moorland, the next they were blind beyond a few meters, stumbling through bogs and mazes of gorse with no phone signal and less and less daylight. Philip couldn’t remember ever being so lost. In fact, he wasn’t sure he ever really had been lost. Not as an adult, not like that.
Dan swallowed a gulp of whiskey. “There’s something about this place… ”
“Mmm. Isn’t there?”
“Anyway, couple of drinks and then straight into the arms of Igor.”
“Ivan.”
“Ivan, eh? Sounds cute.”
The area was so rural that there was no bus or taxi service at this time of day, but Jane-Sarah, the owner of the isolated hotel they’d stumbled across, had implied that one of the staff would be able to drive them back to civilization. Though eccentric, she’d taken their waterproofs and offered them a warm room and complimentary drinks. Dan was right: they’d been lucky. It puzzled Philip that he didn’t feel more relieved.
He wandered up to one of the glass cases that stood on tables around the library. It was hard to tell whether the shabby specimen inside was a fox or a huge otter. Perhaps it was even a dog. Or could it be a combination of the body parts of various animals, a Victorian extravagance like their tea parties of stuffed kittens?
There was a single hard knock at the door. Before either of them could respond, Jane-Sarah entered the room wearing a tweed dress and a string of pearls. Her face was set in an awkward smile that didn’t reach her eyes, probably the result of dentures.
“Are you well?” she asked. I hope you’re well?”
“Very well, thanks,” said Philip.
“Great,” added Dan.
“You should introduce us now,” said a deep voice.
Philip gave a start. A tall, thin man was standing in a corner of the library, though he hadn’t noticed him enter.
“Yes,” said Jane-Sarah. Dan. Philip. My husband.”
“John,” said the man, approaching and offering his hand.
“Sam to our friends,” said Jane-Sarah.
“Should we call you Sam?” asked Philip. Or is that presumptuous?”
The man’s handshake was firm. He didn’t smile back. “As you think.”
Philip imagined himself blurting out, John, uh — Sam — John… ” He decided not to use his name at all if he could help it.
Jane-Sarah made drinks, humming a monotonous tune of only three notes. John-Sam, as Philip had christened him, stared at them without speaking. He scrabbled around for something to say.
“Well, cheers. We thought we were in for a rough night.”
“Heartstone Lodge welcomes you,” said John-Sam.
“Have you had the place long?”
“We have been here many years.”
Dan was peering into one of the cases. “Nice foxes.”
“Yes, they are like foxes,” said Jane-Sarah.
There was something about her strange response which Philip thought he recognized. Did it remind him of something he’d dreamt? Something from the past?
Jane-Sarah levelled her unnerving grin at him. “And what are you in?”
“Oh, me…? I’m precariously in academia.”
“Yes. And also the room.”
Philip nodded, acknowledging the weak joke. “Dan does something incomprehensible with computers.”
“And also the… ”
“Jane-Sarah… ”
Though John-Sam hadn’t raised his voice, he’d said her name as a warning. Philip felt uncomfortable.
Dan eventually broke the silence. “So… busy at the moment?”
“Always,” said John-Sam.
“Oh really?” said Philip. “I hadn’t noticed anyone else yet.”
“They must be keeping to their rooms.”
“Each of them has their own room,” said Jane-Sarah with something like pride.
Philip began to suspect she wasn’t all there. “Rooms are individually prepared for our guests,” added John-Sam. “There is great attention to detail.”
“How thoughtful,” said Philip. “And how welcoming you’ve been to us, although… ”
A thump made him wheel around, nearly spilling his drink. Dan was standing over a drawer in one of the tables that he had obviously just slammed shut. He looked stunned.
“Are you quite right?” asked Jane-Sarah.
Dan shook his head. “Sorry, I… I thought I saw a spider. A big one.”
Philip was dazed, like his drink had been spiked. The hotel’s owners had such an odd manner. And Dan had often summoned him into rooms to remove spiders, but he’d never seen him overreact to one before. He made himself smile.
“This is all very kind, but we must be heading back. How long did you say your colleague would be?”
“Colleague?” said Jane-Sarah. “Colleague?”
“He must mean Ivan,” said John-Sam. “A rule unto himself.’
“So you’re really not sure?”
John-Sam’s face was blank. “Enjoy your drink.”
Philip raised his tumbler, his smile growing tight. He tried to catch Dan’s eye, but he was still watching the shut drawer. He met instead the glassy stare of an unknown animal.
• • •
“Strange that we’re dining alone.”
Dan put down his wineglass and shrugged. “It’s the… the off time. Most of these places will be empty.”
He was somewhere on the far side of tipsy. Philip had largely given in to John-Sam’s offer of dinner to try to mop up the booze. He dreaded seeing the prices on the menu.
“Didn’t John or Sam or whoever say they have plenty of guests?”
“Probably exaggerating. Hoping we’ll come back.”
“Love, doesn’t something seem a bit awry?”
Dan shrugged again. “Sure, they’re weird. Everyone’s weird in the countryside. Just relax.”
Philip was about to make a catty comment about how relaxed Dan was getting when something distracted him. Glancing to his right, he noticed a picture which stood out from the indistinct photos and muddy oils, a print of Don Quixote by Daumier. A thin silhouette rode across a harshly-lit landscape, its face featureless, its head red and bald as a vulture’s. Philip knew the image well because a copy had hung in his parents’ living room.
“What?” asked Dan. “What did I say?”
“No, just… Nothing.”
The Daumier felt like a bad omen. It had disquieted Philip as a boy. He had never understood what a bloody, faceless man was doing in that room smelling of potpourri and Mr. Sheen.
Before he could change the subject, the door of the dining room creaked open, and John-Sam entered wheeling a trolley carrying two stainless steel cloches. He approached their table, footsteps echoing around the empty room. Philip thought he looked different somehow, though he was wearing the same gray suit he’d had on earlier. Possibly it was an illusion caused by the low lighting.
“What’s all this?” asked Dan.
“The chef’s special. With compliments of the house.”
John-Sam set out the covered plates. Philip had never seen them in real life before, only in films and period dramas. That was another thing about Heartstone Lodge. Everything in it appeared to belong to a different era, but it was hard to say which one.
“How generous,” he said. “Thank you.”
John-Sam made a small bow. “Humble feed. But I trust it will be to your taste.”
Mr. Catchpole, thought Philip. That was it. John-Sam bore a definite resemblance to one of his neighbors growing up, a vindictive old bastard who threatened all the children in the street. How hadn’t he noticed it before?
“I’m starving,” said Dan.
“Permit me.”
John-Sam took hold of the cloche in front of Dan and removed it with a flourish. Philip flinched. Dan gasped as though he’d burnt himself.
“I see,” said John-Sam. “Regrettable.”
In the center of the spotless plate was a set of dentures, the gums grayish-pink, teeth off-white and bared. Philip thought of Jane-Sarah’s smile.
“What’s going on?” he asked John-Sam.
“There is only one answer.”
It crossed Philip’s mind that these really might be Jane-Sarah’s false teeth which she’d smuggled onto Dan’s plate in a bizarre cry for help. It was a sign of how the evening was going that he no longer knew whether this was far-fetched or not.
John-Sam stooped towards Philip. “I’m afraid we must find out.”
He plucked away the second cloche. The contents weren’t as much of a shock as the dentures, but were even more inexplicable. Sitting on his plate was a hollow antique doll’s head missing eyes and scalp. Much of its paint had peeled away, revealing blotches of porcelain like some terrible skin disease. There was the hint of a smile about the cherubic parted mouth.
Dan had barely glanced up from his plate. He reached for his wine and downed it.
“Please accept my condolences,” said John-Sam.
“Sorry, what?” said Philip.
“Perhaps I mean my apologies. For Ivan.”
“Ivan?”
“Yes. Every so often something happens.”
Philip tried to imagine where this Ivan could have got the doll’s head. He noticed there was dark matter pressed into the corners of the mouth and the flaws in the cheeks and the whorl of the tiny ear. It looked like soil. The head must have been buried and then dug up. The thought dislodged a partial memory. Once someone had unearthed a doll, hadn’t they? His breath shortened beneath the eyeless stare. Was it when he was small, in the garden?
John-Sam replaced the two cloches. “I can only be mortified. This must end dinner. And also any hope of a lift.”
Philip was speechless for a second. “I… I’m sorry?”
John-Sam held out a palm towards the table as though gesturing to something self-evident.
“What?” said Dan. “Why?”
He spread his bony fingers. “Alas, my wife and I cannot drive. And Ivan is clearly in no fit state.”
• • •
“Dan?”
“Mmm, gorgeous?”
“Are you sure you need that?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Please don’t leave me on my own here. Okay?”
He hiccupped. “I wouldn’t do that.”
He picked up the soda siphon, then thought better of it and slumped down in the armchair opposite. The fire gave off a volley of sharp pops like distant gunshots. Dan sipped his drink and then nodded solemnly. “I agree.”
For a moment Philip was convinced he was talking to the fire. “With what?”
“With your, uh… point of view.”
“Christ, don’t you get cryptic on me.”
Dan held up an appeasing palm. “Something’s… mm, what’s it? Awry.”
“Yeah. How bad is it?”
“Like, at dinner… Huh…? Just fucking insane…”
He took another sip of whiskey. Philip made his voice calm. “Love, enough booze. What’s happening?”
Dan hesitated, scowling at his drunken thoughts. Then he shook his head and got to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think?”
He weaved across the library, muttering to himself. Halfway, he noticed he was still carrying his drink and put it down in the middle of the carpet. He was worse than Philip had realized.
Struggling with the doorhandle, he said something unintelligible, then, “They were his ones, I know it. Fucking his.”
“What was that?” asked Philip. “Dan?”
The door banged shut, leaving him with his unease. But however discomforting Heartstone Lodge might be, surely nothing in it could be worse than the dangers of the night-time moor? It would be crazy to leave now, surely?
The minutes passed, and Dan didn’t return. Philip itched to be online, connected to any part of the familiar world, but he hadn’t asked the Wi-Fi password. His eye was drawn to the nearest fox in its case, the ratty fur and snout bristling with snaggleteeth. Though apparently it wasn’t a fox, only something like it. He had a flash of recollection. He was pleading with his mother, asking for the light to be left on, describing the strange creatures which prowled the landing all night. He was so young at the time that it could well have been a false memory. But his parents had told him about it. How he hadn’t wanted to go to sleep, hadn’t wanted to come downstairs. Because of the things like foxes.
Chills scuttled up the nape of Philip’s neck. He eyed the misshapen creatures ranged around the library as though worried they might escape from their glass cages. It wasn’t just them, either. He couldn’t picture the doll’s head which had stared down at him from a shelf in the potting shed, but there had been one, high up among the cobwebs. It was the reason he’d tried to get out of his dad’s errands, coming up with excuses not to fetch the dibber or a spool of twine. Then the Daumier print he remembered clearly, the knight with his flayed face advancing towards him through long rainy days indoors. Three half-forgotten fears. Three coincidences.
All at once he needed to find Dan. As he opened the library door, it struck him that there was another fear which had preyed on him as a child, the thought of being left alone. Alone in the house, alone at the school gates, alone, alone. They would go to bed. Dan should have called it a night long ago. They’d go to bed and be together, and in the morning they would walk away.
Philip attempted to orientate himself. He was standing in the entrance hall, with its branching staircase and balustraded landing overhead. He had been shown to the gents earlier, but his sense of direction was hopeless. He crossed the hall, entering a red half-panelled corridor much like all the others in Heartstone Lodge. Identical doors passed to his left and right without numbers to tell them apart. What was this place?
When he came to the toilet door, he knocked and called softly, “Dan? It’s me.”
There was no response. Philip couldn’t bring himself to raise his voice in case of disturbing the other guests. Without fully understanding why, he definitely didn’t want to meet any of them tonight. He tried the handle and found the door would open, but the room inside was dark. Clearly he’d gone wrong.
Philip was already closing the door again before he took in the space beyond. It was filthy, covered in dirt. This wasn’t possible. He knew the undulating earthen floor pocked with burrows. He knew the rusted corrugated iron walls and the tattered tarpaulins and the crumbling sections of tree trunk sprouting bracket fungi. The doorway breathed a rich, familiar odor of decay. He was looking into the woodshed at his granddad’s. A place that had always frightened him as a child.
He shut the door with cold, clammy hands. Panting, he turned and saw John-Sam and Jane-Sarah waiting for him a little way down the corridor.
“Are you well? Are you right?”
Philip realized he was mechanically shaking his head. He made himself stop and got his breathing under control. “Yes… Fine… ”
“There is nothing the matter… ”
It was hard to tell if John-Sam meant it as a question or a statement. He looked more like Mr. Catchpole than ever. Even his hair had whitened. Philip thought about bursting past the two of them, charging for the front door. But what about Dan?
“I’m fine… I’m… looking for my partner.”
Jane-Sarah tittered. “He has toddled right off.”
“He has retired,” said John-Sam. “He may be worse for wear.”
“Yes,” said Philip. “I apologize.”
“Oh. Don’t.”
Silence fell in the corridor. The two owners stared at Philip, motionless, not even blinking. The thoughts streamed through his head at the speed of his racing heartbeat. He didn’t know what to do.
Finally, Jane-Sarah yawned. “It is much too late.”
“Much,” agreed John-Sam. “Would you like to be conducted to your room?”
“I… am quite tired.”
Philip followed John-Sam and Jane-Sarah back down the corridor and into the entrance hall. As they approached the staircase, his eye seized on the front door. Again he considered running for it, but the moment passed, and he found himself climbing the red-carpeted stairs. He made an effort to think calmly. They had to get out. That at least was certain. If Dan was in any condition to walk, then they could sneak back downstairs. If not, he would barricade the door and wait until he’d slept it off. Whatever was taking place might have subsided by morning. They might be allowed to leave.
At the top of the stairs, the three of them turned down another red corridor. John-Sam stopped outside one of the doors.
“Here you are.”
“Okay,” said Philip. “Thank you.”
John-Sam smiled at him with Mr. Catchpole’s thin lips. “Not in the least.”
“Sweet night,” said Jane-Sarah.
Philip entered the room, only taking in that it was poorly lit before closing the door behind him, doing his best to smile. There was no bolt or chain, but glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed furniture that looked heavy enough to wedge the door shut if necessary. He waited with his ear pressed against it until he heard footsteps moving away down the corridor. He breathed.
The room they’d been given was dingy and depressing. The walls — grayish for once — were stained and mold-scarred. The only light came from a tarnished banker’s lamp with a green glass shade on the bedside table. There was no sign of Dan. Philip called his name, then went to check the ensuite. The grubby bathroom was empty. His heart sank. Dan was in a different room, behind another of the identical doors. Somehow, he had to find him.
He went back to the door of the room and silently turned the handle. But when he pulled, it refused to open. He yanked at the handle, tried turning it the other way. A cold flush spread in his chest and throat. The door was locked. It was too high up to think about escaping through the window. He was trapped.
Then the banker’s lamp went out.
The cold inside Philip became ice. He fumbled his way through the darkness to the bedside table and clicked the switch of the light in a panic. He straightened up, listening. Had there been a noise just now, a furtive buzzing? Only a feeble gray glow breached the heavy curtains and the blanketing fog. There was no light whatsoever under the door. A fuse might have blown. Though Philip couldn’t shake the suspicion that every light in Heartstone Lodge had been deliberately turned off all at once.
He reached for his phone to use the torch app, then some misgiving made him stop. He took off his walking boots and climbed fully dressed beneath the cold, stale covers of the bed. There was no chance he would get to sleep, but he had a strong feeling that someone or something expected him to be in bed with the lights out.
Heart thumping, he drew the duvet up to his chin, wafting mildew into his nostrils. He wondered whether Dan had passed out or was also lying awake. He wished they were together. Drunk or not, Dan would be doing something, making some plan. As his eyes adjusted, Philip scanned the room for a means of escape. There wasn’t much other furniture, only a dressing table with an oval mirror, what might be a chest of drawers and a large wardrobe. The walls, churning in the darkness, appeared entirely bare. Apart from the lamp, no objects lay on the bedside table. There was nothing that could help him.
Somewhere in the far corner, the buzzing came again. Was it just a couple of winter flies? Looking towards the sound, Philip’s heart leapt into his throat. Despite the darkened room, he recognized the wardrobe. He could never forget it. The swirling burr walnut doors hiding countless leering faces. The clawed feet. The stuff of his childhood nightmares.
The buzzing was getting louder. As Philip had always known they would one day, the wardrobe doors were gliding towards him, opening on a frantic drone that reminded him of summer roadkill. He thought about shutting himself in the ensuite, but fear wouldn’t let him leave the bed.
A funereal stench of lilies filled the room, half-masking a smell of corruption. Flies shrilled and whined above the duvet. Philip wanted to cry out, but his throat was blocked and he couldn’t draw breath. Smothering terror pinned him to the mattress.
Something stirred inside the wardrobe, raising its seething head. A face thick with flies turned towards Philip. It welcomed him to his room.
