The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page B

restaurant through there -’ he indicated a door near a staircase that Ash hadn’t noticed before - ‘that’s open to non-residents too.’
    ‘Fine. Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘Bit early in the day for me, sir,’ the landlord replied without a hint of disapproval. ‘Thanks all the same. So, touring, is it?’
    ‘Uh, no. D’you get many tourists?’
    ‘Ah.’ Ginty picked up the cloth from the shelf beneath the counter and mopped up a puddle. ‘We’re a bit off the beaten track for too much of that, an that’s the way we like it.’
    It was the first time Ash had heard a landlord-cum-hotelier relish the lack of custom, and Ginty must have seen it in his expression. He stopped wiping the bar and gave a short laugh. ‘We’ve got enough locals hereabouts to keep us busy without being invaded by grockles every spring an summer. A few ramblers’ associations an suchlike visit us, o’course, but they know it’s in their own interest not to blab to the whole world and its mother. I keep a room or two available for the odd occasion, but mercifully they’re few and far between.’
    Ash mentally shook his head in wonder, but decided he liked the attitude. Places like Sleath, where tranquillity was preferred to commercial opportunism, were rare in this shrinking domain, so good luck and God bless ’em.
    ‘So you’ll be here on business, then?’
    He suspected the question was not as light as the landlord pretended. In fact, Ginty was examining a mark on the bar-top (one that had been there for a good many years judging by its polished shine) a little too intently.
    ‘I’m here to see the Reverend Lockwood, as a matter of fact.’
    Ginty’s head jerked up immediately, but he looked beyond Ash’s right shoulder, possibly making eye contact with someone else in the bar.
    ‘I’ll be gettin the wife to see to your room, sir,’ the landlord said, some of the friendliness gone from his tone.
    Maybe he doesn’t like his local vicar, Ash mused as he sipped the bitter. Or maybe he’s not keen on talk of hauntings going outside the village - it might attract too many curious visitors.‘Can you tell me how to get to the vicarage from here?’ he said quickly as the landlord walked away.
    Ginty paused in the doorway leading off from the bar. ‘Straight up the village High Street till you reach a fork in the road,’ he said stiffly. ‘Take the right one, up the hill to St Giles’. You’ll find the vicar’s place a bit further on from the church. Big lodge house, you can’t miss it.’
    ‘Is it far?’
    ‘Minute or so if you go by car, ’bout ten if you walk. Room’ll be ready when you get back.’
    Ash noted a hint of regret in the last words. ‘Thank you,’ he said, but Ginty had already gone through the door. Ash drained the last of the vodka, and then the bitter. As he left the lounge he realized that all the customers were watching him openly now. And even the three ‘mouchers’ in the other bar had fallen silent.

6
    H E STEPPED OUT into the sunshine and looked right, and then left, absorbing the village, breathing in its air, testing his own sensitivity. This was something he had learned to do in recent years for, after a long time of denial - almost a lifetime’s, in fact - he had come to realize that his perception could be different from that of others, that he often had an awareness beyond normal capabilities. The faculty had always been there, but it was only three years ago that he had been forced to accept its reality. Before that, scepticism had blocked the self-knowledge. No, why did he persist in fooling himself? Fear had been the barrier. Fear had made him refuse to acknowledge this special faculty. Until something had happened, a haunting so genuine and so personal to him that all denials were swept away, all barricades breached, by a truth that was as overwhelming as it was terrifying.
    Ash shuddered in the sunlight and forced memories aside.
    Sleath was a perfectly normal village, a