The Dark Water Read online

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 1: The Dead Summer

  Praise for Helen Moorhouse

  Newspaper and Magazine reviews

  “Compulsive reading . . . a brilliant first novel, guaranteed to send shivers down your spine” – Irish Independent

  “If a ghost story can be measured by its ability to scare the daylights out of you then this is very good indeed . . . Not for the faint-hearted” – Sunday Independent

  “A classic chiller” – The Irish Times

  “Helen Moorhouse has a fresh, original voice. She has created a satisfyingly scary page turner” – The Irish Examiner

  “Read it” – Sunday World

  “Helen Moorehouse has applied skill, knowledge and respect to every word in this book, creating the connection between the past and the present and making the squeaks and scratches in our homes take on a whole new meaning!” – The Evening Echo

  “Satisfyingly chilling from start to finish, this is a deeply haunting book from an exciting new author” – Woman's Way

  “If you enjoy a good ghost story, have a foible for romance and new beginnings or if you just like to curl up with an unusual tale, then The Dead Summer is the right read for you” – Suburbia magazine

  “Thoroughly enjoying this suspenseful tale” – New Books magazine

  “Atmospheric” – U Magazine

  Online reviews

  “An excellent debut. I had tingles down my spine as I read this and I couldn’t read it fast enough” – bookshelf.com

  “A chilling and sometimes heartbreaking read . . . fans of Linda Kavanagh will love this new author” – chicklitclub.com

  Book Trade reviews

  “The Woman In Black has met her match! Deep within this terrifying and sinister tale lies a sad story of loss and regret. I could not put The Dead Summer down” – Eason reviewer

  “I would recommend to anyone who enjoys gothic, ghostly and atmospheric stories. It has a similar feel to that of The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters, The Place of Secrets by Rachel Hore and House of Echoes by Barbara Erskine. I look forward to more from this author and more of this type of book from Poolbeg” – Waterstone’s Drogheda reviewer

  Author reviews

  “An exhilarating, enthralling and spooky read. A great debut novel that leaves you eagerly awaiting the next one” – Linda Kavanagh

  “A poignant historical thread is woven through this story of a haunting” – Martina Devlin

  About the Author

  Originally from Mountmellick, Co Laois, Helen Moorhouse lives in Drumcondra, Dublin, and is a wife, mum, daughter, sister, aunt and great-aunt. After many years spent behind the scenes in radio, Helen now works as a freelance writer. Her interests include TV, movies, eating and things that go bump in the night. Her debut novel, The Dead Summer, was published by Poolbeg in 2011.

  For more, see www.helenmoorhouse.weebly.com

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook published 2012

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: [email protected]

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Helen Moorhouse 2012

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-074-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  Acknowledgements

  The Dark Water has been a long time coming.

  My huge thanks go first and foremost again to the team at Poolbeg, especially Paula Campbell, who was with me every step of the way on that long journey, taking care of me with long conversations, fresh ideas and endless patience. Thank you.

  To my editor, Gaye Shortland, the invaluable Third Eye – thank you for your dedication and patience, yet again!

  Thanks to my family: Seán & Claire Keenan – here’s another footprint, Dad; Margaret & John Laidlaw; John, Mary, Hugh and Rory Keenan; Tony, Bríd, David, Neil and Meadbh Keenan; Rose, Ray, Rachel and Brendan Comerford (and little Kit!); Angela, Donal, James and Kevin O’Neill; Avril & Alan Moorhouse; Adele, George, Maitiu & Jake Reid; Colin and Andrea Moorhouse. Thank you all for your love, support, help and encouragement.

  A special thanks is reserved for two extraordinary ladies who undertook solo transatlantic flights to take care of me and my girls, and give me free hours to bury myself in this story. Avril and Rose – thank you so much.

  To Suzy – who did for me what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not.

  To the Heads. As always.

  The Dark Water runs parallel to an extraordinary period of my life. To the extraordinary teams of people that I have encountered since this process began – you are too many to name but each and every one of you know who you are and that you have touched me and my family immeasurably. The team at OLHSC Crumlin; the team at Florida Proton in Jacksonville; the team at Bandon Hyperbaric – everyone who has cared and helped. Never doubt that we are forever in your debt.

  To all of my friends, former colleagues, acquaintances and well-wishers – your kindness and support have been a harness on this rollercoaster and will never be forgotten. You have no idea how grateful we are.

  To Daryl, Daisy and Florence. A million hundred dollars.

  And to my readers – to everyone who bought, borrowed and enjoyed The Dead Summer. Your response has been overwhelming. Thanks to everyone who took the time to mail and message, to recommend, to review, to simply read. I hope this is another step on a long journ
ey together.

  There is one reader, however, who is much missed. Thanks to Louise Jesson for being a fan, a boss, a friend and an inspiration. Wish you were here.

  For Florence, who puts the joy into every day

  CHAPTER 1

  October 29th

  Silently, the intruder slipped into the apartment and stayed a while in the hallway, listening, contemplating his next move.

  He was drawn to the living room – had been since the first time he’d come here, unnoticed and silent. He moved so stealthily that it was hard to tell if he walked or floated down the corridor. Once there, he moved the living-room door at the very end of the passage and it squeaked defiantly, causing him to pause a moment, to listen for sounds of movement from the room on his left – the one he hadn’t dared visit yet. There was only stillness. He proceeded, entering the room and beginning the familiar walk-around.

  He walked by the first window, a shadow crossing past the amber glow from the streetlight outside. Next, to the writing desk which fitted into the space between the two long sash windows. He riffled through a book open on the desk – The True History of Edinburgh’s Vaults – losing the page that had been left open. Beside it, a notepad – should he try to leave another message? The last one had been so difficult. And it had taken so much of his energy. He decided against it tonight.

  The intruder moved to the mantelpiece of the tall fireplace, grasping its edge momentarily, leaving four fingerprints behind in the dust. He then ran a forefinger along the mantel, leaving a trail, pausing at the end. At the picture. Gently, he turned the frame toward him, to see it better – the black-and-white photograph of a boy in swimming trunks – nine or ten years of age – he couldn’t remember precisely. The boy stared back at him, a familiar broad, proud grin across his face, holding a brick, of all things, under his left arm and in his right hand, thrust toward the camera, was a medal on a piece of ribbon.

  The intruder stared at it a long time, lost in the face of the beaming child, thoughts and memories rushing through his head, so many that they hurt. He turned away, unable to sustain the energy that they needed. He wanted to go, but knew that he couldn’t leave yet. He had a job to do and he was determined that tonight he was finally going to do it.

  He glanced around the rest of the room, at the belongings of the man. Empty teacups, a half-drunk bottle of Bell’s, a glass left with a sticky stain on its base where the last drains of a drink had congealed. A long black coat was slung over an armchair, the pocket pulled inside out. Dirty dishes were scattered throughout.

  The intruder moved toward the door again.

  This time, he didn’t pull it toward him to open it, or pull it behind him to close it. Instead, he stepped silently around it, despite the fact that he seemed too big, even for a small person, to negotiate the space. In a second, he stood outside the next door to the right. In yet another second, having summoned all of his energy, and as quietly as he possibly could, he stood on the other side of it, taking in his surroundings: the wardrobe and tallboy, the bedside lockers, the vast bed. And in it, the man he desperately needed to see. The one person who could maybe help him. The one person that he needed to know.

  In his sleep, Gabriel McKenzie dreamed that someone had entered his room. They hadn’t used the door – he hadn’t heard the handle turn – but they were in there with him all the same. Gradually, he found himself swimming up from deep, deep sleep, to something verging on consciousness. Half-awake, he became gradually more aware, his heart starting to beat faster, his breathing audible as he surfaced from his slumber. There was someone in his room, someone standing at the end of his bed, watching him.

  Gabriel didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. He gasped with fear and expectation, forced himself to sit upright, ready to confront who was there. He subconsciously sought words – a ‘who the hell are you?’ or ‘get out’ or ‘don’t hurt me’ – he wouldn’t know until they came out of his mouth.

  But there was no one there.

  Gabriel’s heart raced as he scanned the room, his eyes darting from right to left and back again to the end of the bed where he’d felt – no, known – that someone was watching him, but the room was empty, the only sound his own ragged breathing. Not again, he thought.

  CHAPTER 2

  October 31st

  “Come on, Martha, it’s starting!”

  Martha Armstrong glanced impatiently at the clock in her kitchen, two empty glasses in one hand and a chilled bottle of wine in the other. She had to resist shouting back to Sue in the next room, to let her know that she was on her way. She jigged a little from foot to foot and forced herself to look at the screen that Will was studying intently, his elbows resting on the granite-topped island where they both stood, staring at his laptop.

  “There!” he said, pointing at the screen. “What do you think?”

  Martha stared at the screen. It showed a large room in darkness, visible only in the green tinge of night-vision cameras. The shot was focused closely on a grand piano to the left of a marble fireplace. Suddenly, what seemed like a small, flickering ball of light rose directly up from the closed lid of the piano, hovered for a second or two and then appeared to double – a second, identical ball of light appearing to imitate exactly what the first did – before they zoomed off the screen and disappeared.

  “Orb?” asked Will, leaning on his elbows and turning toward Martha, his face intent and hopeful. Martha couldn’t help but smile and resisted the urge to lean forward and kiss him. “Moth, my sweet,” she grinned and put the glasses and the wine bottle down on the kitchen island before reaching for the computer mouse.

  Will sighed. “Are you sure?” he said, frustrated. “The Leith Street Group sent this to me, positive that there was something in this particular piece of footage.”

  Martha shook her head. “Watch’” she said, returning to the beginning of the segment of video and playing it again. “The movement is fluttery, I suppose you’d call it, exactly the same as a moth or a butterfly, and the hovering is just too similar to the movement of a flying insect to conclusively prove that it’s paranormal – you’re always saying yourself that it can only be paranormal if you can’t in any way, shape or form prove that it’s normal – and this is just too normal for me.”

  She reached again and picked up the wineglasses, intending to move away.

  “But it splits in two!” Will said, exasperated.

  Martha sighed and put the glasses down again with a clink. “Seriously, Will – you don’t even believe in orbs being the first stage of a spirit manifestation. You told me that you thought they were only ever insects or dust or reflections of passing lights or whatever – I didn’t pick my cynicism up off the side of the road.” She was growing increasingly impatient. So many conversations with Will were like this these days.

  “The footage is very grainy but, look, there’s a mirror on the mantel up above the fireplace, and my guess is that the edges are bevelled – hence our moth, or insect or whatever, fluttering about, looking for a way out, reflected in the light from the camera, suddenly doubles up, one becomes two – its own reflection – and then zips off about its business. The mirror is unframed, and the angle of the shot, up that close, makes it difficult to get a clear view of the scene as a whole. It’s a simple mistake to make though, especially for believers in orbs. Which you’re not, right?”

  Will knew she was correct but Martha could tell it didn’t make him happy. He so desperately wanted evidence these days to prove absolutely that there was something out there. He knew it, and she of all people knew it but proving it was the elusive dream for people like him, and hundreds of thousands of people before him. When he’d had Gabriel to bounce off, he’d been less disheartened every time something proved inconclusive but now he relied more and more on her, and his own desperation. Obviously his age didn’t help – approaching his late thirties might well have catapulted him into a mid-life crisis and a need to make a significant mark in his field before it was to
o late.

  For that matter, at the age of thirty-seven, perhaps she was in premature mid-life crisis too.

  “Shit,” he said simply.

  Martha tried to avoid eye contact with him and continued to stare at the laptop. She knew it was ridiculous but sometimes she felt that he almost wanted to blame her when something could be explained rationally and she was the one doing the explaining.

  Will went and picked up his waxed jacket from a nearby chair and slid his arms into it. “Shit, shit, shit!” he said, and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course it’s a moth!” He rolled his eyes upward. “It’s so stupid of me to think otherwise but you’re right – I need to get a grip and get back to using my head when it comes to these things. It’s just so frustrating sometimes . . .”

  “Here, Will, what’s this?” Martha suddenly interjected.

  “What?” He was back at her side in a single step, as she leaned closer toward the screen, dragging the mouse across to take the footage back a few moments.

  “Watch this.” she said, leaning back to allow him a closer look.

  They stared as the camera automatically pulled back – it was a static night-vision camera, fixed on a tripod but with the facility to focus automatically if it sensed movement or needed to expand its view to allow a shift in light or mass to fit the frame. The shot was much the same as before – the grand piano, the fireplace, the mirror now clearly visible, reflecting the wall just above the camera, faintly lit with the glow of the infrared light from the piece of equipment. The movement was so fast that had they not been staring intently at the screen, they might never have seen it but, as they did, Will gasped, and grabbed the mouse in his right hand to watch it again.