crates before looking at both of his workmen. “I want all of this lot out of here by this evening. Do you think you can do that?”
“I think we can manage that, boss,” answered Jones. He indicated to where an array of unsorted clutter lay scattered haphazardly in the far corner of the room: the iron frame of a child’s bed, a broken rocking-horse, several small chairs, and other miscellaneous pieces of dated furniture. “It’s just a case of getting that lot packed and then shifting what’s up here outside.”
“Well then, jump to it,” said Briggs. “The sooner we’ve done this house clearance, the better. There’s something about this place that just doesn’t feel right.”
There was something in the way that his foreman had made this declaration that made Hargreaves uneasy. It was an admittance of what he himself had been feeling for the past week ever since he had set foot in the old house. Although as a level-headed, practical man, it was something he had not dared confide to any of the others. Now, after what Briggs had said, he thought it was time to raise certain issues.
“You’re not the only one who thinks there’s something not quite right going on here,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Briggs. He looked up at Hargreaves.
“Well, it’s just that I too have had the feeling that there’s something, what shall I say, slightly spooky going on here. It’s not something I’ve mentioned before for fear that either of you would think that I’m beginning to lose my marbles or something.” Hargreaves looked to Jones for some kind of support, but saw only blankness in his weary-looking face before continuing: “It’s worse up here in the attic. At times, when I’ve been up here on my own, I, well—”
“Well, what?” inquired Briggs. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Hargreaves looked uncomfortable. He bit his lower lip and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked down at his scuffed shoes for a moment before looking up. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m sure I’ve heard the sound of a child whimpering, crying almost. It’s very faint, and I’m not sure if it’s just the sound of the wind blowing through the eaves or what, but it sure has scared the hell out of me. I don’t know about either of you, but I also get the feeling that it’s much colder up here than it is downstairs. Don’t you feel it?”
A little chill shivered down Brigg’s spine, and he felt a sudden nervous tenseness shudder through his whole body, forming a tight knot of fear in his stomach. He had worked in the removal and acquisition business for over thirty years, and had been in countless houses, private homes, and mansions across the country throughout his career, and he had to admit there had been a few instances when the fearful realization that he was handling the treasures and personal effects of the recently deceased had made him distinctly uneasy. At such times, he had had to wrestle hard with his own conscience to dismiss the belief that what he was making a living from could be viewed by some as nothing more than legalized grave-robbing. It was undeniable that there was a certain ghoulish element to the entire business.
“I don’t feel anything. I think this is just a load of nonsense.” In an act of purposefulness, Jones put on his workmen’s gloves. “The sooner we get this stuff into crates and get it outside, the sooner the job will be done. I’ll admit there is some weird stuff here, but I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have. Never will.”
“I bet you would if something were to walk through that wall over there,” said Briggs, trying to a inject a little joviality into a topic which was becoming increasingly macabre. He pointed to a portion of wall close to the old bricked-up fireplace. “I must say, when I first came up here, a few days ago, I half-expected to find a coffin or two up here.”
“I’d rather you didn’t talk like that,” complained Hargreaves. “This place gives me the creeps enough as it is. He must have been a bit of a weird one to have lived here all alone. And that raises another thing—why would an old man, whom you’ve already told us had no family, have child’s toys and things up here?”
“Beats me.” Briggs consulted his clipboard. “According to all the details, Mr. von Shaffer was to all extents and purposes a bit of a hoarder. It could be that he collected some of these things. Though why he would want to stick them all up here in this room, away from everything else, is a bit of a mystery. A bit like the man himself. From what little I’ve pieced together, it would appear that he came over from Germany or Austria sometime during the reign of Victoria, although I’ve been unable to ascertain any true records pertaining to him. Consequently, I’ve been unable to track down any surviving relatives who may be entitled to a share of some of his possessions. Similarly, like so many foreigners, he left no will, no one to whom he bequeathed any of this.” He gave an encompassing wave of his hand. “Anyhow, it looks as though you’re nearly done up here. We’ll get that lot in the corner cleared out, and I’ll put it all down in the inventory and then we’ll get it packed up and—” He shivered uncontrollably as the almost undetectable sound of a child crying emanated from the far corner before being cut abruptly short. Eyes wide, he stood stock still.
“Did you hear that?” hissed Hargreaves, staring wildly.
“Hear what?” Following the other’s gaze, Jones glanced around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No headless wraiths materializing out of the floorboards, or hideous, fanged corpse-faces at the window.
“It was—only the wind,” said Briggs, uncertainly. His face had gone several tones paler. Relax, he told himself, relax. The idea that anything could be wrong was utterly ludicrous, totally ridiculous. He felt a little tremor of fear pass through him. It was almost as if there was something—some presence—in the room with them. And that whatever it was, it had neither shape nor substance. Rather, it was a feeling, an impression of looming malevolence that touched his mind with a finger of ice. Thoughts clashed inside his head, and he felt the sudden deathly silence pull at him. He tried to steady himself. “Come on, let’s hurry this up. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’ll be away from here.”
“Right you are, boss.” Oblivious to the nervous actions of his companions, Jones started towards the untidy heap of child’s toys and furniture that had been tucked away in the shadowy corner of the attic room. The wooden boards of the floor creaked under his heavy feet and a sprinkling of dust fell from the raftered ceiling.
Reluctantly, Hargreaves walked over to assist. They soon got their usual working rhythm going, with Jones clearing the bric-a-brac and handing it to the other, who would then take it over to Briggs. It was then the foreman’s duty to record a reasonable description and assessment of the item before it was finally packed up. And, whereas Jones worked with a cold efficiency, the other two men were edgy, occasionally stopping to look and listen, straining their senses for the undetectable.
There were no repeats of the eerie sound that had scared them earlier, and, after half an hour, they had managed to clear away and log everything, with only the iron framework of the child’s bed remaining. In a somewhat cavalier attitude, Jones reached down and hauled it to one side, the metal legs scraping across the floor. It was a cumbersome piece of furniture, and it took both himself and Hargreaves to manhandle it across the room. In the process of doing so, one of the struts of the framework snagged on Hargreaves’s chest, ripping open the front of his overalls and dislodging the pencil he kept in his breast pocket.
With a grunt, he lowered the bed to the floor, walked around Jones and looked down to see where his pencil had gone. It could not be seen, and his first guess was that it had rolled underneath one of the packing crates.
“Are you all right, Mike? That looks like quite a nasty scratch you got there.” Jones nodded to where the child’s bed had snagged the other.
