Voices From Beyond (A Ghost Finders Novel) Page 8

  “I suppose it was only a matter of time . . .”

  Something appeared abruptly, out of nowhere, hanging on the air right in front of Melody. Huge and dark and horribly distorted—something that might have been human once but was now ugly beyond bearing. So powerful, so wrong, that its presence alone beat on the air like a thunder-clap. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, but when it tried to speak, no sound came out. The long, bony face seemed to scream silently. The shape reached out to Melody with one long-clawed hand. She stood frozen in place, caught by surprise and transfixed by shock. Happy lunged forward, putting himself between Melody and the thing that towered over her.

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” he roared, right into the thing’s face.

  The apparition looked at him and stopped. It hung on the air before him, motionless and silent. It seemed . . . to recognise him. It reached out a hand to Happy, almost imploringly. And then it vanished. Gone, as suddenly as it had arrived. Happy let out a long, shaky breath. Melody put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “My brave boy. Always there when I need you. I know I can always depend on you.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” said Happy, not turning round to look at her.

  “Well,” said Melody. “Let’s pretend it is.”

  Happy finally turned to look at her; and they shared a quick smile. Happy turned to look at JC.

  “So? Was the thing you didn’t see anything like the thing we just saw?”

  “No,” said JC.

  “Fair enough,” said Happy.

  They all looked round sharply as the front door to Murdock House suddenly opened. JC actually jumped, despite himself. He quickly recovered, but not before Happy and Melody both noticed his reaction. JC didn’t say anything, so neither did they. All three moved to stand together, to face the approaching newcomer. The Ghost Finders believed in presenting a united front in the face of the enemy. Or civilians. The man who came through the door crashed to a halt before them and looked from one face to another, almost imploringly.

  He was middle-aged, with a lion’s mane of long grey hair and a neatly trimmed grey goatee beard. His face was basically bland, as though he’d used up all his character and individuality in his hair. He wore a smart three-piece suit in a sloppy way, as though he didn’t have the energy to do it justice. He looked tired, and flustered, and quite definitely relieved to see them. Which made a nice change. He started to speak, then broke off abruptly. He looked quickly around, to make sure there was no-one else in the car park, and leaned forward to address them, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

  “You are . . . them? Aren’t you?”

  “Almost certainly,” said JC.

  “Who did you have in mind?” said Happy.

  The new arrival took in the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s white jacket. He started to say something.

  “Don’t ask,” said Melody.

  “He doesn’t like to talk about it,” said Happy.

  “Who were you expecting?” said JC. “Exactly?”

  If anything, the man became even more furtive. “You are . . . the Ghost Finders? Yes?”

  “That’s us!” JC said brightly. “Licensed to kick supernatural arse and glad to do it. You are . . . ?”

  “Oh; yes! Sorry. I’m Jonathan Hardy. I run this radio station. For my sins.”

  “So,” said JC, “what’s the problem? What’s been happening here?”

  Jonathan looked shocked. “You don’t know?”

  “We always prefer to hear the details first-hand, from the people directly affected,” JC said smoothly. “Less misunderstandings that way.”

  “Say Aargh! and tell us why you’re scared,” said Happy. “We have the medicine for what ails you.”

  Melody punched him hard in the arm. “You keep your medicines to yourself.”

  “Ow!” said Happy, pouting and sulking simultaneously, with the ease of long practice. “That hurt!”

  “It was meant to,” said Melody.

  JC smiled winningly at Jonathan. “Don’t mind them. They’re being themselves. You have to make allowances for them; because it’s either that or shoot them. And don’t think that hasn’t been seriously discussed. All appearances to the contrary, we are professionals. We are the Ghost Finders! We don’t take any shit from the Hereafter.”

  Surprisingly, Jonathan smiled and nodded, understandingly. “You should see some of the staff I have to work with. I’m glad you’re here. Things have been . . . pretty intense. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

  JC performed the introductions for his team, and Jonathan insisted on shaking everyone by the hand. But then his good humour disappeared quite suddenly, as he glanced back over his shoulder at Murdock House. He seemed scared, and something else, too. JC wasn’t sure what. Guilt, perhaps. Jonathan quickly pulled himself back together again and looked quickly from one team member to another. As though trying to make up his mind as to whether they were going to be up to the job. Whatever that turned out to be.

  “You are . . . real professionals?” he said. “You’ve dealt with this kind of thing before?”

  “We’ve dealt with everything before,” said Happy. “Suddenly and violently and all over the place. We are the pros from Dover, and we have all the best toys.”

  “Exactly!” said Melody. “You think I’m humping this equipment around for the fun of it?”

  JC looked at Happy. “Please tell me she hasn’t actually started humping her equipment.”

  Happy shrugged. “It was only a matter of time . . .”

  “Funny,” said Melody. “Funny men . . .”

  “Oh God,” said Jonathan. “Look . . . you’d better come in. Before somebody sees you.”

  He hurried back to the open front door, not looking round to see if they were following. JC strolled unhurriedly after him, Happy slouched along, and Melody and her worryingly independent trolley brought up the rear. Jonathan held the door open for them. JC only hesitated a moment, before squaring his shoulders and striding through the doorway. The same doorway his dying self had emerged from. He could feel all the hairs standing up on the back of his neck and a cold hand gripping his heart. He looked suddenly back, to catch Happy and Melody looking at him. He met their curious stares unflinchingly, then turned away to give Jonathan his best casual, confident, smile. It was always best to look like you knew what you were doing, in front of civilians. It helped calm them down. JC strode into the reception area with his head held high, doing his best to give the impression he was doing everyone a favour by showing up. Happy and Melody followed him in. Fortunately, there was a handicap ramp to accommodate Melody’s trolley. It still managed to drop a few things, and Melody’s language made all three men blush for a moment.

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  JC looked thoughtfully around the large, open, and fairly airy lobby that served as Radio Free Albion’s reception area. He was quickly relieved to discover it all looked reassuringly normal. No obvious dangers and not a sign anywhere of his future self. JC realised Jonathan was looking at him and flashed the man his best meaningless smile before turning to Happy. Who was staring around in a vague, unfocused way.

  “Still not picking up anything?” JC said quietly.

  “Not a thing,” said Happy, as quietly. “Why? What am I supposed to be . . . All right, I know, you don’t want to talk about it . . .” He frowned. “You know, come to think of it, this whole place is unusually quiet. I mean, I should be getting something. A house this old, you’d expect it to be packed with history. Layer upon layer of laid-down psychic impressions. And given that there’s supposed to be a group of people working here every day; why am I not getting anything from them? It’s like something is suppressing all the local mental chatter and preserved images. Something big enough and powerful enough to hide itself completely from me. And there isn’t much, in or out of this world, that can do that.”

  “Do you feel any danger?” said JC.

 
“Always,” said Happy. He looked again at the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket. “You’re going to have to come clean about that, eventually. If it’s a part of what’s happening here . . .”

  “I know,” said JC. “Really, I know. But I’m not ready yet.”

  “We’re here, for when you are. Was it really that bad?”

  “Worse,” said JC.

  “Shit . . .” said Happy. “You want a few of my little helpers?”

  “My head’s in a bad enough place as it is,” said JC.

  “Sit!” Melody said loudly. And everyone turned to see her trolley come to a sudden halt, almost spilling its entire load. Melody glared at it, then at everyone else.

  “It’s learning!” she said.

  “Maybe we should hire you a pack-mule,” said JC. “Less hard on the nerves . . .”

  He beckoned her to him with a quick jerk of the head, and the three Ghost Finders stood together, looking the reception area over carefully, taking their time. Refusing to be hurried . . . even though it was obvious Jonathan wanted very much to move them along. Never let civilians set the pace. They never know what’s really important. Because first impressions always matter when you’re looking for things that don’t belong.

  The entrance lobby had probably been quite impressive, once upon a time, but now it was seedy and ratty and run-down. The walls hadn’t been repainted or replastered in a long time, the carpet had been worn thin in more places than it hadn’t, and while there was a large reception desk at the rear of the room, complete with a great many telephones, there was no-one there to run it. There were no photos on the walls, no publicity shots of the various radio personalities, nothing to impress the casual visitor with how important Radio Free Albion was. Only a single large poster on the wall behind the reception desk, saying WELCOME TO RADIO FREE ALBION—YOUR LOCAL RADIO STATION! They all turned to look at Jonathan, who had the grace to shrug and look embarrassed.

  “Cost cutting,” he said bluntly. “New owners. Since taking over, they have made their attitude very plain. They paid for a radio station, not a country house. If we want to make necessary repairs and improvements, it’s up to us to find the money. They don’t want to know. We’re doing what we can, but . . . Well, when I say we, I mostly mean me. I bought Murdock House and turned it into a radio station, all those years ago. I had such hopes, then . . . But, bit by bit, I lost control, giving up point after percentage point, to keep the place going; and now . . . I just run the station.

  “The new owners are determined Radio Free Albion should turn a profit as soon as humanly possible. So they can get their investment back, bring in new advertisers, and turn the station into a cash cow. None of which is going to happen anytime soon. Advertisers have been running for the hills like rats from a sinking ship. Pardon my metaphors. The new owners don’t know about our . . . current problems. Or why the old owners were so keen to sell.”

  “Why were the new owners so keen to buy?” said JC.

  “I may have . . . slightly exaggerated the financial possibilities,” said Jonathan, smiling slightly. “They’re not local, so they don’t know about . . . I was desperate to find someone, to keep the station going! I liked the old owners. They ran us as a tax loss and left us alone.” He looked almost pleadingly at each of the Ghost Finders in turn. “You have to find an answer to this . . . mess. Before the new owners find out!”

  “Who are these new owners?” said Happy. “Anyone we might have heard of?”

  Jonathan winced and looked away. He couldn’t have seemed any more embarrassed if his trousers had suddenly dropped down around his ankles. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. “Seriously Substitute Sausages.”

  “What?” said Melody.

  “Seriously Substitute Sausages!” Jonathan said loudly. “All right? They’re made of soya! And, other things. They’re very big in their field. So I’m told.”

  “Taste good, do they?” JC said innocently.

  “Like chewing on a towel,” said Jonathan. “And the new owners can’t be doing that well, or they wouldn’t need us as a cash cow.”

  “Excuse me for pointing out the obvious,” said Happy. “But why isn’t there a receptionist, behind the reception desk?”

  “She’s on a break,” said Jonathan. “She takes a lot of breaks. Sally Walsh; only temporary. Because we can’t get anyone to stay. Not since . . . You know, we used to broadcast right around the clock, twenty-four hours a day. Our coverage was exemplary. Advertisers were fighting each other for space. Now it’s all we can do to manage eight hours. Most of the announcers and technical staff are gone. We’re struggling to keep the station going with a skeleton staff.”

  “How many, exactly?” said JC.

  Jonathan met JC’s gaze almost defiantly. “There are four of us left, now. The ones with nowhere else to go.”

  “All right,” said JC. “Let’s get down to what matters. What is the problem here?”

  Jonathan looked around the reception area, as though afraid someone else might be listening. He hesitated, searching for the right words.

  “Officially,” he said finally, “as far as the staff are concerned, you’re here as guests. To be interviewed on air, as experts in the supernatural. You have my authority to ask the others anything you like, but please . . . tread carefully. We’re all a bit . . . on edge after everything that’s happened. We’ve all been through a lot. So please don’t do anything to upset anyone. I can’t afford to lose more people.”

  JC stepped forward and thrust his face right into Hardy’s. “Enough! What is the problem?”

  Jonathan took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and braced himself. All at once he looked older. Tired, and beaten down by circumstances beyond his control. But at the same time, he looked almost relieved. As though he could finally put down a weight he’d been carrying for far too long. He looked carefully at each Ghost Finder in turn, willing them to understand.

  “Over the last few months, we’ve been having problems with . . . voices. Voices from outside, from nowhere. At first it was the odd sound, breaking into our transmissions. We didn’t know what it was. The sounds became words, and the words began to form sentences. To begin with, they only appeared during unanticipated moments of radio silence. When for one reason or another, there was no music, no chat, what’s known in the business as dead air. Then these . . . voices started to appear more often. Harsh, raw; shouting and screaming. Desperate to be heard. Some sounded barely human . . . unnatural. Hearing them was enough to make your blood run cold.

  “At first, the engineering staff tried to explain it away as Electronic Voice Phenomena. The radio equivalent of Rorschach ink-blots. The brain imposing patterns on random sounds. Hearing things that weren’t actually there. But what started out as gibberish became increasingly clear. Complete sentences, making more and more sense. Human voices, shouting and pleading, trying desperately to warn us about . . . something. Like the voices we hear in nightmares, full of dreadful significance.

  “They weren’t limited to dead air, any more. They started appearing in the middle of broadcasts, breaking into shows, overriding on-air voices. All across the schedule, at every hour of the day and night. No pattern to it, no obvious scheme or agenda . . .

  “And then they began appearing on the phone lines. On the phone-in shows. The engineers thought they sounded like genuine callers, and let them through. These . . . voices started having actual conversations with the show hosts. Spooked the hell out of them and their audiences. The conversations didn’t make much sense, but the intent was clearly there. We did everything we could to track down where the voices were coming from. Whether they were signals from some other station, some more powerful signal overriding our own. Or some independent operator, with illegally powerful equipment . . . But the engineers couldn’t identify the sources or keep the voices out. They shut everything down; and the voices still kept coming in . . .

  “It was one of our listeners, calling in, wh
o first suggested . . . that what we were all hearing were the voices of the dead. She said she thought she recognised one of the voices as her uncle Paul. Who’d been dead for seventeen years. After that, the floodgates opened. More and more people phoning in, saying they were hearing familiar voices, from their dear departed. They pleaded with us to stop them because they didn’t want to hear what the voices were saying. Some even accused us of perpetrating a vicious hoax . . . Professional psychics and would-be mediums started turning up here, at reception. Offering their services. And I was so desperate by then, I tried some of the more plausible ones. But they ran like hell once they were exposed to the actual voices. Our engineering staff ran off, too. You can’t blame them . . .”

  “You said, these voices were trying to warn you,” JC said carefully. “Warn you about what, exactly?”

  “It’s never clear!” said Jonathan. “The voices are clear enough, but what they’re saying makes no sense at all. Whoever they are, they sound genuinely desperate. Desperate to warn us about something that’s coming.”

  The front door slammed shut behind them, and they all spun round. Something about Jonathan, and his story, had got to all of them. Even the very professional Ghost Finders. Standing in front of the closed front door was a sturdy young woman with a scowling face, spiky crimson hair, extremely distressed jeans, and a T-shirt bearing the message DON’T WASTE MY TIME. One of her grubby white sneakers was held together with a lot of black duct tape. Her round, sulky face held enough metal piercings to make her dangerous to stand near during thunderstorms, along with enough garish make-up to stun an Avon Lady at twenty paces. She glared at them all, impartially.