The Soul Auction Read online

  “A long time ago,” I continue. “Something made her lose her faith. She tried to get it back, but apparently she couldn't.”

  “So what -”

  “I don't know,” I add. “She saw something thirty years ago, maybe on the night my mother died. I know I'm probably putting two and two together and coming up with four, but I feel like there's still a part of this story that I'm not seeing properly. It's as if -”

  Before I can finish, my phone beeps. I take a look at the screen, and I feel a tightening sense of apprehension as soon as I see that Dora Ohme – or rather, somebody using her account – has published another book review, this time on a novel titled The Evil Man of Porthomman Down.

  “Is it another review?” Graham asks, coming over to look at the screen.

  “Two stars,” I read out loud. “Another tale of monsters in the dark, but of course the whole thing is hopelessly unrealistic. Why would a demon bother going to such elaborate lengths, when he'd clearly claimed the protagonist's soul already? Everything in this book is contrived beyond belief. The author clearly knows nothing about visitors who come to visit the living from the world beyond the void.”

  “Sounds like she didn't like it much,” Graham suggests. “Or, I mean... Well, whoever wrote that review didn't like it.”

  “She keeps mentioning this void,” I mutter, “almost as if she thinks it's a real thing.”

  “So?”

  “So I feel like she keeps circling some kind of point, but she never actually makes it.”

  “The whole thing seems like gibberish to me,” Graham says with a shrug, heading back across the room. “Maybe she went a bit loony toward the end.” He stops in the doorway. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Dora was a smart woman, and she was never, ever a liar. Then again, I guess it's pretty obvious that those reviews aren't really written by her.”

  “Is it?” I whisper, staring at the text for a moment longer before clicking through to Dora's profile again.

  “I'm going to get back to work,” he continues, “and -”

  Suddenly a loud bang rings out, and it sounds as if it's coming from somewhere downstairs. I turn and look at Graham, just as another bang rings out, followed swiftly by a third.

  “What the hell's that?” he asks, hurrying down the stairs.

  Following, I catch up to him in the front room, just in time to hear another banging sound. This time, it's clear that the bangs are coming from the cottage's front door. Just as I'm about to ask Graham whether somebody might be trying to get out attention, there's yet another bang, and this time I see the entire door shudder in its frame. Something's slamming against the other side, but finally the sound stops and I'm left standing alone with Graham in silence.

  “What do you think that was?” he whispers.

  “There's only one way to find out,” I reply, heading over to the window and peering out.

  Seeing no-one in the pitch-black street, I hesitate for a moment before unlocking the door and starting to pull it open. As I do so, I'm suddenly struck by a foul, rotten stench, and I quickly see that the outside of the door has been left smeared with bright red blood. Some kind of large meaty chunk has been nailed to the door, and fresh blood is dribbling down to the floor.

  “What is it?” Graham asks as he comes closer.

  “I don't know,” I stammer, “but -”

  Before I can finish, I spot something dark on the ground, just outside the cottage. I step closer and lean down, and to my horror I see that it's the severed head of a black dog.

  “Who would do something like this?” I ask, turning to Graham. “Why -”

  Suddenly a scream rings out. I hurry out into the street, and lights are switching on in nearby cottages as the scream continues to fill the night air. A moment later a door opens and one of the neighbors comes out.

  “It's the church!” someone shouts in the distance. “Something's happening at the church!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lizzie

  Thirty years ago

  “And now you're clean again,” I say to Alice as I carry her out of the bathroom at the pub. “Happy?”

  She lets out a faint, contented gurgle, which is a far cry from the bawling just a few minutes ago. Now that her nappy has been changed, however, she seems to be back to her normal, laid-back self. After glancing at Kate and seeing that she's still happily drawing in one of the far booths, I carry Alice to the window and look out along the beach. Sure enough, several people are still gossiping nearby, while a TV news crew has just arrived to get some shots of the damaged cliff.

  “Quite an eventful morning,” a familiar voice says.

  Turning, I'm surprised – and a little embarrassed – to see the guy from last night. The guy who tried to kiss me.

  “Hi,” I stammer, aware that I might be blushing, “I'm sorry, I just -”

  “No, I'm sorry,” he replies, putting his hands in his pockets. “I had a lot of fun last night, but I think it's quite clear that I misjudged the situation. I hope you'll be able to forgive me for putting you in such an awkward position.”

  “It's fine,” I reply, as I set Alice down in her pram. “I haven't drunk wine in a long time.”

  “I was rather pushing it on you.”

  “There's really nothing to worry about,” I tell him, although deep down I just want the ground to swallow me up. “All's well that ends well.”

  “I see there's been something of a kerfuffle out there on the beach,” he says, wandering to the window and peering out. “I felt the ground move this morning.”

  “Have you been to see the damage?” I ask.

  He turns to me. “Not yet.”

  “There's a big v-shape carved out of the cliff,” I explain, glad to be able to talk about something other than last night's drunken mix-up. “It's like somebody just sliced a chunk out. You should go and take a look. It's really something.”

  “I imagine it'll be on the evening news. There's a camera crew on the scene already.”

  I glance at him and offer a faint smile, before turning to check that Kate is still busy with her crayons. To be honest, I'm feeling a little flustered. Last night was a mistake and although I blame myself for the misunderstanding, I'd really like this guy to just get the message and back off. Instead, as I head back over to the bar and pour myself some more water from the bottle, I get the distinct impression that he's watching my every move.

  “People aren't happy about the damage to the cliffs,” I say finally, trying to move the conversation on a little so that maybe it'll end soon. “Those cliffs are a symbol of the area. I think they're kind of it's soul.”

  “And do you believe in that?” he asks.

  “In what?”

  “In souls.”

  I turn to him, half-expecting to find that he's smiling, but instead he's staring at me with a very calm, very keen expression.

  “Do I believe in souls?” I ask, trying to buy myself some time. “Um...”

  “Not everyone does,” he points out. “To some, it's just a wishy-washy concept that has no meaning in the real world. But to other people, souls are very real indeed. I was just wondering where you fall on the spectrum.”

  “I haven't really thought about it very much.”

  I wait for him to say something, but once again he's simply watching me. I take a sip of water, and I'm starting to hope that the landlady will come back through from the pub's kitchen soon, so that this awkward atmosphere can be broken a little.

  “Do you believe in souls?” I ask, even though I know the question sounds crazy.

  “I believe humans have souls, yes.”

  “That's... nice,” I reply.

  “Some souls are more troubled than others,” he continues. “Some are born troubled, and others are damaged as they move through life.”

  He wanders over to the booth and looks down at Kate's latest drawing. She barely acknowledges him at all, preferring instead to keep working with the crayons.

&nb
sp; “Sometimes,” the man adds, “I think a soul is like a piece of paper. Over the years, it takes on more and more marks. Humans have some control over those marks, over the broader strokes, but for the most part one can never really be sure what one will end up with. Just like sometimes one sets out to draw one thing, and at the end one finds that one has drawn something else entirely.”

  “That's very profound,” I reply, even though I think maybe he's trying a little too hard.

  “What have you drawn there?” he asks Kate, pointing at one of her earlier pictures.

  “A seagull,” she replies confidently.

  “And what did you set out to draw, when you started that particular picture?”

  She looks up at him. “A seagull.”

  “Magnificent,” he replies. “You must be a true artist, able to maintain your purpose throughout the whole endeavor.”

  I open my mouth to tell this guy that maybe he should leave, but suddenly I feel a faint fluttering sensation running through the left side of my head. At the same time, I hear a brief crackling sound. Reaching up, I touch the side of my head just as everything goes back to normal.

  “Are you alright?” the man asks.

  “Sure,” I reply, just as the landlady comes back through from the kitchen. “I'll just... I just need to pop to the bathroom for a moment.”

  As I head to the door, I realize that I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I tell myself that it's nothing, that I'm just letting the recent stress get to me, but once I'm in the hallway I have to stop and lean against the wall for a moment. The world seems to be swimming around me, and it's almost as if I'm suddenly a little tipsy again. I take a deep breath, while trying to stay calm, and then I focus on the fact that I just need to stay calm. I'm not sick and I don't need help. I'm just a little under the weather, and maybe tired, but I'll have to push through.

  Suddenly I let out a gasp as I feel a flicker of pain running through my head. The sensation only lasts for maybe half a second, but it's strong enough to scare me.

  “You're not sick,” I whisper under my breath. “Everything's fine.”

  I pause for a moment.

  The pain is gone.

  “You're not sick,” I say again, as if deep down I believe that the more I say that, the more it'll be true. “You just need to get a grip.”

  And then, when I step toward the bathroom door, I feel my knees crumple. Everything goes black, and I'm unconscious before my body hits the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Alice

  Today

  “Oh, it's quite awful!” Dorothy sobs, sitting on a stool just outside the church as we hurry along the path. “Whatever could possess somebody to do such an awful thing.”

  A couple of men are already with her, so I head into the church with Graham and a few other locals just a few steps behind. I stop, however, as soon as I see that all the wooden pews have been pushed aside and left smashed against the floor. Up ahead, Father Redman is at the altar, where something large and bloody has been left on top of the stone slab.

  “What is it?” Graham asks, stopping next to me.

  “This is monstrous,” Father Redman says, his voice trembling as I hurry along the aisle. “Never in all my life have I seen anything so horrific.”

  I head up the steps and stop next to the altar, where I finally see that there's some kind of animal laid out on the stone. Glistening red meat has been left exposed, along with chunks of bone, and after a moment I realize that somebody has skinned another dog and placed it here. This time the head has been left in place, and the dog's mouth has been left open as if it died just as it tried to cry out.

  Blood is trickling down the side of the altar, pooling on the pocked stone floor.

  “Dorothy came to fetch her reading glasses,” Father Redman says, making the sign of the cross against his chest. “She was here earlier, tending to the flowers, but she forget her glasses and...”

  His voice trails off for a moment, and he looks pale enough to faint.

  “She found the door open,” he continues. “The lock had been smashed, and then she saw all the damage.” He turns to me. “She said there was no sign of anybody here. Whoever committed this atrocity, they fled into the night.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened around here before?” I ask.

  “Of course it hasn't!” he snaps. “What kind of town do you think this is?”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, “I was only asking.”

  Stepping around the altar, I wince as I see the dog's exposed belly with loops of intestines poking out. I've never witnessed anything so horrific, and a moment later I hear footsteps coming closer. Looking past the altar, I see Graham coming to a halt on the other side.

  “Another one?” he stammers, clearly shocked by the gruesome sight. “It's like the one of the door.”

  “What are you talking about?” Father Redman asks.

  “There was a dog nailed to the cottage door,” he continues, looking first at the priest and then at me. “This is like the dog that had its head cut off and then got nailed to Dora's front door.”

  “This is abominable,” Father Redman mutters, taking a step back before grabbing a white cloth from a nearby bench and then arranging it over the dog's body. “Things like this simply don't happen in Curridge. We're a quiet community, we keep ourselves to ourselves. Why would anybody want to disturb our peace in such a horrendous manner?”

  I take one corner of the cloth and pull it down the side of the altar. Blood is already starting to soak through the white fabric, forming slowly-growing crimson patches.

  “Something has brought this madness to our town,” the priest continues.

  Turning, I see that he's eyeing me with suspicion.

  “I don't know anything about it,” I reply. “I swear.”

  “Alice was with me,” Graham says, stepping closer. “We've been at the cottage for hours now. She was with me when we heard knocking at the door and -”

  “Nobody asked you!” Father Redman snaps.

  “It's true!” he continues. “We were inside together! We heard the sound of the other dog being nailed to the door.” He stares at the cloth for a moment, where the blood stains are now so much larger. “I think this is Tommy Marshall's dog Popo, and I think maybe the one on the cottage door was Dennis. He belongs to -”

  “James Fibbins,” Father Redman says, interrupting him again. “Yes, I know the dog owners in this town, Graham. Believe it or not, as the local priest, I know everyone here, which means I know that nobody in Curridge would ever be able to commit such an atrocious act. I guarantee you both that this was done by an outsider!”

  “You can't be sure of that,” Graham points out.

  “I am certain!” Father Redman roars angrily. “I know this town!”

  “Maybe not as well as you thought,” Graham replies, before turning to me. “I'm going back to the cottage. I'm going to take that poor dog down and...”

  He hesitated for a moment, before heading back along the aisle.

  “This evil did not originate in Curridge,” Father Redman mutters, staring at the bloodied sheet. “It came here from elsewhere, but it did not grow and form in our community. I would have felt such a presence, a long time ago. Everyone would have felt it. We're not imbeciles.”

  “You have to call the police,” I tell him. “There's no -”

  “Don't tell me what I have to do!” he shouts, turning to me with bare fury. “We don't need the likes of you, interfering and offering unsolicited advice! Don't you have anything better to do than hang around here, causing trouble?”

  “I'm sorry,” I reply, stepping back before turning and starting to walk away.

  “You never told me what you're doing here!” he calls after me. “What do you want in Curridge, Miss Ashcroft?”

  “Don't mind him,” Dorothy says, dabbing her eyes as I reach the doorway. “He's always been a blowhard.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask.


  She nods, but I can tell that she's still shaken. She looks past me, toward the altar, and there are already fresh tears in her eyes.

  “I abhor cruelty to animals,” she tells me after a moment. “And to men, too, but animals are so honest. They don't wrap themselves up in knots, the way men do. When you look into the eyes of a man, or a woman, you see what they want you to see. But when you look into the eyes of an animal, like a dog, you see their true nature staring back.” She wipes another tear from her cheek. “What kind of awful person would kill two innocent animals like this?”

  “I have no idea,” I reply, taking her arm and supporting her as we leave the church, heading out into the cold night air. “It seems like too much of a coincidence that the two places targeted were the church and Dora Ohme's cottage.”

  “I used to see Dora at church sometimes,” Dorothy explains. “Not often, not recently, but she'd come from time to time. She always kept to herself and stayed at the back, and she usually left before the service was over. She seemed to come only for the sermon, as if she was hoping to gain something. As if she was looking for some source of strength.”

  “Do you think she found what she was after?” I ask.

  “I'd like to believe so, but she seemed terribly troubled. I'm sure it was her I saw last year, around August or September, shouting at someone on the beach in the middle of the night.”

  “Did you hear what she was saying?”

  “She was too far away, and it was windy. I'm not even sure she was speaking English.”

  I pull the gate open and lead her out onto the narrow street that slopes down into town. Ahead, Curridge sits in darkness, and further in the distance there's a faint patch of moonlight dancing on the surface of the sea.

  “Father Redman doesn't see everything,” Dorothy continues, as we start walking at a pace that'll take at least an hour to bring us back to town. “He's blind to the things that bubble beneath the surface. I'm not saying that somebody local committed these horrible acts tonight, but I'm not saying it's impossible either.”

  “I don't have a clue,” I reply, as I spot the pub silhouetted against the shore. There's a light in one of the upstairs windows, and I quickly realize that it's the room next to mine. “I do know, however, that I'm not the only visitor in town tonight.”