Lakes

GRIZEWATER HALL. NO VEHICLES, proclaimed the two tarnished brass sign plates on the imposing grey stone gatepost. Tom Branch reversed gingerly back out onto the narrow road. Through the rear window and a gap in the trees, he had a clear view of the picturesque Grizewater Lake, blue beneath the towering green and slate of the north Cumbrian fells, bright in the early April afternoon light. There was a lay-by almost, so he parked his car there. His was the only vehicle. He guessed none of the others had arrived yet.

Dense, deep green foliage overhung the gateway and the rutted track beyond. But for the upward gradient, this could be a portal to a dark, subterranean place of earthy shadows and unknown, lurking horrors. The gate, five-barred and wooden, badly needed a fresh coat of paint, if the wood was not already too rotten. The gate stood ajar. Tom found he could fit his small wheeled suitcase and himself through. He began to wind his way up the curving, unkempt driveway at whose end the hall, still obscured by the trees’ thick canopy, presumably stood.

The previous Saturday, Tom had been at breakfast with his wife, Stella, a year his junior at sixty, a fantastic cook throughout their married years. Since opting to retire at sixty, Tom had spent the past year doing all he could to get established as a writer. He had disciplined himself to work from nine until five with half an hour for lunch. He had experimented with daily and hourly word count targets, various long-form writing applications, online writing prompts and competitions, but nothing had really seemed to work, to turn on the tap of ideas and inspiration that he knew lay deep within him. For the last decade of his career as a head teacher - a job whose stress levels and sheer intractability only those who had experienced it could know - he had longed to drive out of the school gates for the last time, and be free to concentrate fully upon is beloved hobby of writing. Tom had started more than fifty long-form writing projects, scattered between Ulysses and Scrivener, one of his earlier abortive works in Apple Pages, but he had finished very few of them. He felt deeply disappointed in what little he had to show for his first year of full-time writing. His entries into short story competitions had been shortlisted a couple of times but he had never won a prize. He had been starting to think he had made a dreadful mistake, retiring early, and should have slogged it out at school for at least five more years, despite his doctor’s advice against ignoring the frequent irregular beats that interrupted his heart’s natural rhythm, more so, year upon year.

Just has he had been bemoaning his lot, on that sunny Saturday in March, the aroma of bacon and eggs making no impact on his deepening sense of depression, Tom Branch’s phone had pinged. The subject line of the email was, ‘Are you a writer looking for inspiration?’ Tom’s brow had furrowed. Spooky. As if his phone had been listening to his thoughts. He glanced across at the inert grey ball of the Amazon Echo Dot his daughter had given him last Christmas. Stella had insisted on keeping it unplugged, lest it spy on their conversations and splash their innermost secrets all over the internet.

Tom had opened the email and read it aloud to Stella. “Hurry - sign up for a five-day residential writing workshop with major published author Felton Drake, script writer and editor for the BBC and major streaming platforms, novelist, playwright and author of short stories. Small-group sessions in idyllic lakeside location, self-catering. Places limited.”

“You should go,” Stella had said. “It could be just what you need. If this bloke has done all that TV work, he must know how to write. You could get a lot from him. Go on. Go for it.”

Tom had gone for it. Replying to the email, he had received full details within an hour. No need for advance payment, cash to course leader at the venue, location and travel directions. The quoted fee seemed ludicrously cheap for a five-day course; they had guessed that was because it was self-catering and because Grizewater Hall, a crumbling old pile whose owner had inherited it from his mother and didn’t really want it so let it out cheaply to groups wanting a basic level of accommodation in a scenic, remote setting, didn’t cost much. Stella had kissed him goodbye and waved him off.

Now, Tom emerged from the trees’ tunnel and there was the house, with its white barge boards, grey slate construction, single glazed sash windows. On the white-painted front door was a note, in black ink, written with an italic nib in a careful, even hand. “Welcome to our residential writing course. You will find your name upon the door of your room, within. The first course session will begin at 8:30pm.”

Strange, Tom thought. The time now was just after two in the afternoon. Would all the sessions be late in the evening? Surely not. Maybe this Drake had scheduled the first class for later, to give everyone time to arrive. Perhaps some were coming a long way. He reached out and turned the door knob. The heavy door was not locked, and opened at his touch.

The house smelled musty and unlived-in. Tom wondered how often Felton Drake ran courses here. Perhaps he used this place only on occasion. A wide square-turn staircase with a tall newel post led upward; a paper-printed sign attached to the wall read ‘Residential rooms this way’, with an arrow pointing up the stairs.

“Hello!” Tom called out. “Anyone here?”

Nothing. He really was on his own. Tom lifted his case and headed up the broad stairs. It did not take him long to find his room. It was big enough, with a single, iron-framed bed, made up with old-fashioned blankets. The shared bathroom, he saw, was across the landing, with large, claw-foot bathtub, 1930s pedestal basin, of the type now back in fashion, and a matching squared-off, pearl-flush-handled toilet.

So, nothing to do here for the next six hours plus, Tom thought. Might as well head out and get something to eat. Leaving his case in his room - surely, there would be no burglars or housebreakers here, despite the unlocked front door - Tom headed back to the car. He swung out of the lay-by and made toward Grizewater village, where he was convinced he had passed a tavern a short while ago, en route to the hall. Sure enough, there it was. The Lamplugh Inn, next to the church. Tom left the car on the gravel car park and made his way inside. The low-ceilinged, cosy interior smelled of wood smoke and beer. Surveying the row of pull-pumps on the bar, Tom opted for Grizewater Gold. The tall, young, pullovered and bearded barman confirmed that food was available; Tom ordered a steak and kidney pie with grilled veg.

“Are you here for the writing course at the hall?” said a cheery voice.

Tom looked up. The newcomer was a tall man in a tweed jacket over a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, aged around fifty, with a deviated nasal septum and a warm smile. “Yes,” he replied. “Are you on the course too?”

“No, not me,” smiled the other. “Pleased to meet you. Clive Annet, vicar at Lamplugh Parish Church, just over the road. May I sit down for a moment?”

“Tom Branch.” Tom gestured to the chair on the other side of his table. Annet sat, and they shook hands. As their palms pressed together, Tom sensed that the vicar’s eyes widened for the merest instant, then he dismissed the thought. Maybe the bloke had piles and it hurt him to sit down.

Annet’s eyes narrowed slightly. “May I call you Tom? Thanks. Now, I have to tell you. Your course leader is Felton Drake. He has been doing these sessions up at the hall for quite some time.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose as Annet reached across the table and grasped both his hands.

“Please, whatever you do, promise me that you will not allow Drake to draw you into any agreement or contract without your full and complete understanding of exactly what it is that you are getting into. Drake is dangerous.” Annet’s eyes fixed Tom’s, without blinking. With every syllable, his hands moved up and down, tightly gripping Tom’s.

Puzzled, Tom thanked the Reverend Annet for his advice. A little awkwardly, the vicar relaxed his grip, rose, nodded, and moved back across to the bar, where his pint of Scafell Blonde was waiting. Tom’s pie arrived, delivered by a smiling, curly-blonde waitress, and he began to eat.

After his meal, Tom drove back along the lakeside road, up toward Mockerkin village, high among the fells. He parked on a patch of stony ground off the road and wandered on foot up the fellside, taking in the breathtaking panoramas. Dry stone walls snaked along and across hillside contours, doubtless following complicated feudal enclosure agreements of yesteryear. Up here, the ancient neolithic civilisations had left their marks, in the form of stone circles, barrows and earthworks. Looking down, he picked out the slate roof and white bargeboards of Grizewater Hall, a toy house far below. Gazing gown, Tom sensed a brooding presence, something malevolent, waiting, incongruous in that peaceful, beauteous setting.

Tom walked until the afternoon sun began to fade, then returned to his car and wended his way back down to Grizewater village. At the village store, he picked up some bread, margarine and cheese, for an evening snack ahead of the planned writing session. Back at Grizewater Hall, he found the house just as he had left it, with no sign of anyone but himself in residence. Tom sat on his bed and ate his sandwiches, then lay down in replete contentment. He must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing he knew was the alert from his Apple Watch, reminding him of the writing session due to start in ten minutes. He rose and crossed the landing to wash his face, still conscious of the hall’s emptiness. There was not the slightest sound nor sign of any other occupant. Ablution completed, Tom combed his hair and walked down the stairs. At the newel post, he heard the faint sound of voices and laughter, an air of a coterie at ease in one another’s company. The sound grew louder as he approached a high door off the hallway, which presumably gave onto the house’s main reception room.

Faces, dimly lit by the room’s four smoky yellow oil lamps, turned toward Tom as he entered. In a wing chair, facing the door, sat a man in a white dinner jacket with a red carnation in his buttonhole. The man rose to his feet. “Mr Branch, I presume. Please come and sit with us.” He gestured toward the only vacant seat, opposite his own. “May I introduce Mary Farquhar, and Dechevalier Buquet.”

Each rose, and gently accepted Tom’s proffered hand. When all were again seated, Felton Drake drew breath. “Now, our party is complete. Mr Branch, I hope you will excuse the means of lighting. This is a low-tech group. Moreover, the electricity supply here is less than trustworthy, so we prefer more, er, reliable methods.”

Tom nodded. “It is a pleasure to join you, sir. I hope to learn a great deal over the coming days.”

For the next hour, Felton Drake did most of the talking; the others merely acknowledging what he said. It transpired that Tom was the only member who had not done the course before. Drake explained that he would be issuing writing prompts to the course members, which they would then convert into plot outlines, then the group would discuss their strengths, and opportunities for improvement. Sessions would begin at eight thirty in the evening, because people were always at their most scintillating and creative during the hours of darkness.

Tom began to feel the effects of his long drive, and his afternoon of fell-walking. He politely excused himself, and withdrew to his room, where he undressed, nipped across the landing in his dressing gown, bathed, and returned to his bed.

Tom hoped to fall asleep quickly, tired as he was by the day’s exertions, but he could not. Time and again, he felt himself on the edge of sleep, but every time he awoke again, aware of the distant buzz of voices from downstairs. Would they never go to bed?

After interminable hours of fitful rest, Tom arose with the sun, at twenty to seven. He had had enough of this place. Something didn’t feel right. Tom resolved that he would attend the course sessions, but he would not spend another night under the roof of this rotting old ruin. Swiftly, he packed his things, scribbled a brief note to Drake that he would be back in time for the evening’s class, carried his case down the stairs, placed the note on the hall sideboard and exited the house, into the bright morning air. Closing the door, he made his way toward the dank, earthy passage of the overgrown driveway, emerging onto the road. His car was where he had left it, in the lay-by. Tom found it strange that his was still the only vehicle there. How had Drake and the other two course members come here? Perhaps they had all shared a taxi. After all, it was clear that they had all met before.

Tom drove quickly to the Lamplugh Inn, where the receptionist confirmed they had a room available, and breakfast would be served when he was ready. Glad to be away from the eeriness of Grizewater Hall, he tucked vigorously into a hearty breakfast, then made for his room to shower and catch up on his missed night’s rest.

Tom awoke a few minutes after eleven. He washed and put on fresh clothes, then headed out to continue his exploration of the Lake District. He drove around Windermere, vowing never to repeat the experience, with its interminable traffic jams and shirtless male pedestrians hell-bent on getting themselves run over. After a brief drive through the passes, he found Derwentwater much better suited to his tastes. The vast public car park behind the Theatre By The Lake had ample spaces; the tourist density was eminently tolerable, and for fifty pence he was able to buy a large bag of duck food, with which he delighted the avian community down by the landing hard, tossing them tidbits and watching them peck up the treats with enthusiastic vigour.

Tom found the group in the drawing room exactly as they had been the evening before. He was not sure, but it looked as though they were all wearing the same clothes.

Felton Drake explained that he wanted each member of the group to write a plot outline for a short story, about a rescue scenario with a good ending, set somewhere in the Lake District. Then they were to exchange their paper with someone else, and talk about any possible improvements. Tom swiftly outlined a plot about a family unused to mountain weather who had set out on a hike up Helvellyn, only to be cut off by low cloud and zero visibility. With no warm clothing nor sleeping bags, they would not have survived a night up among the rocks. Tom had them rescued by helicopter, a yellow Mountain Rescue Wessex hoisting them one by one into its safe, capacious belly.

Tom’s partner for the evening class, Mary Farquhar, had written a plot about a Derwentwater passenger boat, the Swan, catching fire in mid-cruise, listing and threatening to capsize over the deepest part of the lake. In Mary’s outline, members of the public, and the various private boat operators at the lake side, made out toward the stricken vessel in whatever boat they could lay their hands on. In Mary’s story, all souls were rescued.

The next morning, after a good night ‘s sleep at the Lamplugh Inn, Tom drove once more into the lakes, reasoning that he might as well spend his days sightseeing, rather than waste time waiting around for Drake’s nocturnal classes. He found himself drawn toward Thirlmere, the lake that affords Manchester its water supply, the razor-sharp ridge of Helvellyn providing a stark backgournd above.

Tom parked the car and stepped out into the fresh morning air. He sat down on the bouncy green cushion of the verge grass, then lay back, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

The roaring, yellow monster took him completely by surprise. The blatting rotor blades fanned air downward, mussing his hair and flattening the grass. Sitting up, Tom watched as the helicopter drove arrow-straight toward Helvellyn’s ridge, then hovered and lowered its hoist, a man on the end. Tom’s breath caught in his throat like sandpaper. This was the plot he had written, his story outline. As he watched, barely breathing, another paramedic abseiled down the line with an aluminium stretcher, then all were winched upward, the injured man safely on his way to Workington or Carlisle or wherever.

Tom’s thoughts whirled. Was this what the vicar had meant? Leaping into his car, he drove straight to Derwentwater.

All was calm in the theatre car park by the lake. No boat fires, no heroic public rescue. It was afternoon now; the boat rides were closing up.

The classmate’s plot had been fiction. Tom’s had not. Suddenly, he understood. The empty car park. The oil lamps. The whole thing was a trap, a macabre recruitment fair. They needed him. They wanted to draw him and his predictive powers into the circle of ghosts haunting Grizewater Hall.

Leaping into his car, Tom accelerated homeward, faster than the devil could chase him.