Dark Glass

By David Skynner

Cameron is the director of a once successful ‘Ghost Hunter’ TV show, now discredited as remorselessly and cynically faked, but on the crew’s final outing before being cancelled, he believes his prayers have been answered when they realise they have found the real thing; a being that appears to exist only in reflections. They are not mistaken, but the spirit that confronts them is as old as the world itself, powerful and knowing beyond measure and it has a purpose. Drawn initially to them by Cameron’s suicidal state of mind, it watches them and finds their darkest fears.

‘He understood now, that what he thought had died had not expired, but had instead, from shame, been pushed into an inner darkness. Once lost in that abyss, cast out from and denied the light of a place in his being, it had festered and grown ever more monstrous. Fool, be careful what you wish for; you cannot run from your own secrets, the things you cannot bear to countenance linger still, seeking a way out and though some might only hurt, others will kill.‘

The road to Heaven travels first through Hell and each must face and find a way to own what their personal demons have made of them. They face a desperate fight to survive, but battling the pain they have hidden from themselves they are already at a disadvantage. The spirit does not care if they survive or not for its purpose will be fulfilled either way, it cares only that they confront the truth.

Dark Glass is a supernatural story, but is also a meditation on the psychological impact of trauma and how, if unresolved, it can have a lasting and damaging effect on the personality and freedom of those affected. It is based on the author’s own experience and that observed in other people he knows.

The story is also a screenplay and will shortly be produced as a feature film, starring John Hannah in the lead role of Cameron.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781631929793

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Losing, lose, lost. Words that echoed again and again. Losing, lose, lost. A litany of collapse, of failure. A description of slipping grip, sliding security, failing position. He saw himself on a steep scree covered slope, high on a towering precipitous mountainside, where a film of tiny shattered rock provided gritty lubrication to the downward slide of any poor beast caught there. The slope increases and ends at a cliff, where a sheer drop of over a thousand feet ends in another brutal scree covered slope.

On the incline at the top of the cliff, just below a narrow path, lies the man. Having put a foot wrong and stumbled from the path, he is now face down, arms and legs spread out to maximise contact and thereby friction with the ground. He is breathing too quickly. He lifts his eyes up, panicked gaze focused on the safety of the path, only a couple of tantalising feet above him and wonders if he can make it.

Extremely slowly, he raises an arm, preparing to reach for a hold from where he can pull himself back up. Immediately though, he slides, forcing a wail of terror from his lips. His arm goes back down, fingers digging desperately into the ground, but he has momentum now and the slope as it steepens shows no mercy. His slide accelerates; he glances over his shoulder at the lip of the cliff only fifteen feet below him, as his mouth gives voice to a desperate imprecation to any deity that might be listening. It is unimaginable, unspeakable, the reality and scale of the emotion that floods one at a moment where death turns its languid gaze upon you and approaches. The scream of one whose fear is of the greatest magnitude possible, who is fighting for their life and losing, is not like any other; it is unrestrained by self-consciousness, total and more like a baby’s than anything else, for it is a cry to the mother for rescue.

There is no time for the rationality of a looming hope for redemption, as desperate fingers, flesh tearing away, seek a minute instance of solidity that might arrest and extend the life that appears about to end. It is beyond the comprehension of anyone who has not been there and by a miracle been rescued to tell the tale.

This man though would not be reprieved and slid from the scree slope into empty air; his only company a small waterfall of rocky fragments. His surprise at this sudden and violent end, rendered the act of a further cry pointless, so he fell in resigned shocked silence.

Penny for them? The voice was warm and quite near.

Cameron’s eyes cracked open, the dark fantasy mercifully broken.

Not worth even that. Cameron muttered.

He was sat in the back of a darkened van that was gently swaying as it moved. He did not look at the man who had asked the question, but he also didn’t close his eyes again either.He showed no interest in the line of passing trees visible through the windscreen, nor in the other passengers, he just trained his gaze on the floor and stared. His eyes were blank, half closed orbs that let a little light in, but were so opaque and unreadable that they betrayed nothing of the surging turmoil within. He was breathing a little too quickly, the excess oxygen making his head swim and his heart thump against his ribs; panic was not far away.

In the front seat there was a sweep of blond hair as a young woman cast a discrete and concerned glance, around at him.

Is that it? Asked the woman after a moment.

Cameron’s eyes flicked up. Rusty iron gates, held between lichen covered stone pillars, became visible through the windscreen as the van slowed and came to a stop. Cameron didn’t respond to the question.

The driver climbed out and slammed his door. A moment later, the bald tattooed dome of his head came into view as he approached the gates. He stopped there, busy with some activity which was invisible from Cameron’s vantage point and so his disinterested attention switched to a small dream catcher, hanging and oscillating hypnotically below the rear view mirror. His mind was empty. The thought that his mind was completely still occurred to him and surprised him, for he was not otherwise still in any sense. As he sat transfixed by the dream catcher’s slow revolution, he mused that his ability to think had been overwhelmed by the immensity of his emotion. His distress stretched like an ocean in all directions; in colour a deep slate grey, it rose and fell, slowly at present, but with substantial amplitude of peaks and troughs. Like the deep Southern Ocean, it’s power lay in its immense volume, such that once stirred to action, it would reduce any but the strongest ship to flotsam.

He was in a state of despair; he knew it, he gazed upon it, examined it. It was a state completely without hope, but defined by the hope for hope and it was this latter aspect that gave it the power to inflict yet more pain. He yearned to be without hope, but the life force is strong, even in the definitively beaten, hope for hope may persist until the final breath, until the scattering scree gives way to the fall through open air and perhaps even beyond that. The pain inflicted by hope may only end, once the beat of the heart does too.

Cameron felt a hand on his knee. He glanced down at it, confused by its reassurance and then up at the owner of the hand. A man who was only dimly visible and whose kind gentle eyes twinkled in the darkness.

You want to take a look now? The owner of the hand asked.

Cameron blinked, Why didn’t the words mean anything, he wondered.

Or we could go straight to the hotel? The questioner continued.

Slowly, Cameron’s mind shouldered aside his distress, ordered some words, considered them, dismissed most and settled on the simplest of replies.

Now. He said, in barely more than a whisper and the friendly eyes nodded their agreement.

The gates visible through the windscreen were opened one at a time and the driver returned to his seat. After uttering a brief, but palpably dramatic sigh, that spoke volumes, he engaged the van’s gears and the vehicle lurched forward through the gates.

As the van came to a standstill, the blonde woman opened her door, climbed out and a moment later the side door slid back. Brilliant overwhelming light flooded the interior. Cameron blinked, he could see nothing for a moment, hearing only the movement of others, but as his eyes adjusted to the brightness he realised he was now alone.

Beyond the open door he could see an overgrown driveway lined by scrub bushes and trees. Also just visible, was the corner of a building. It was utilitarian in construction, red brick and of little or no aesthetic value, a municipal building where function and budget are the imperatives. Only one window was visible and it was boarded up.

Muted voices drifted to him from somewhere to the front of the van. He knew he should get out, that they were waiting for him and starting to wonder why he hadn’t followed, but his legs and arms seemed paralysed. Move. He instructed himself. Move! With infinite weariness, his limbs finally responded and he stepped slowly from the van on to the gravel drive.

He shielded his eyes from the daylight and winced as his hand brushed against wounds freshly inflicted on his face. He had a cut above his eye, which was bruised, swollen and turning purple. Also his upper lip was split and still bloody and his lower lip was red and grazed.

Looking up, Cameron took in the building that was to be their base for the next few days. It was substantial and dated from several different architectural periods. Nearest to them, was a part that once must have been a fairly grand country house. Georgian in origin, it had three floors and stretched for at least seventy-five yards to either side of them. Beyond that was a single storey building with a highly pitched roof; it had high arched windows and a small tower, bearing within a recess, a bell and Cameron took this to be a chapel. Beyond that were some other buildings, built on in a random fashion. Some in the Victorian tradition of red brick and stone window lintels and beyond those, others of block and render construction, probably dating from the early twentieth century. It was an ugly mishmash of styles and every window on every floor was boarded up.

As Cameron took this all in, his mood lightened a fraction. A natural creative instinct stirred and he forced a slight smile of satisfaction at the sight he saw before him. Isolated and overgrown, neglected, but with its history readily described in its construction, it was obvious to him that this was an appropriate place to work.

The work in question could be deduced from the brightly coloured legends that adorned every fascia of the customised van. ’Ghost Hunters UK Tour’, the signage declared proudly, alongside a brashly evocative logo and TV channel ident.

The young woman was stood a few feet away, puffing on a cigarette. She caught and held Cameron’s eye and smiled in a manner that was at once both shy and knowingly coquettish. The corner of Cameron’s mouth twitched, it was only barely a sort of automatic response, but it was enough to reassure her. The woman was Deanna; a name Cameron thought was one of the most beautiful he had ever heard. She was in her early twenties and was attractive without being overtly pretty. Her eyes were dark and deep exercises in perplexing and enticing contradiction, at once innocent and terribly knowing and her attire walked a similar line between alluring and a school ma’am. She liked Cameron and always had; she had worked with him now for over three years and fancied she liked him more than was perhaps a good idea. She had no real idea if her ardent respect was reciprocated though, as she wasn’t very good at reading men.

Can I bum one of those? Cameron asked, without looking her in the eye.

This surprised her, as to her knowledge he hadn’t previously been a smoker, but she happily proffered him one, lit it, and then watched him suck in the smoke like a seasoned addict. She wanted to ask about the cause of the injuries to his face, but as he hadn’t offered an explanation when he’d climbed into the van and she was merely an underling, she didn’t feel it was her place to intrude.

The two men were loitering near what he took to be an entrance. It wasn’t the main entrance to the building, rather a doorway secured by sheets of plywood and a substantial padlock. On the wood above the lock, there was a large sign warning trespassers that transgressions would be met with the full force of the law and that dogs were used to enforce security. Similar signs were also posted on the chain link fencing surrounding the building and at intervals along the walls.

Dougie was the man who had touched his knee in the back of the van. He was in his late thirties and apart from being a little portly, seemed happy to be undistinguished and ordinary. He was one of Cameron’s closest friends and it was the simplicity of his relationship, both with the world and himself that made his kinship of so much value to Cameron. He was a man who could be trusted to see things as they were and to express his opinion, honestly and without projection or inflection. He was a man who was happy in his skin, a rarity these days and he displayed no apparent desire to be the center of attention. He was a good man, a simple and honest man, end of story.

Pete, the driver of the van was more complicated. He had a shaved head and a fussily trimmed goatee that spoke of a certain innate narcissism. He sported a number of elaborate tattoos on his arms, possibly inspired by Gaelic or Maori artwork and had a tendency towards drama and complaint. It was this latter character deficiency that he was currently demonstrating, as their conversation was plainly audible and being attended to by the smokers. He has no fucking right. Pete said and spat on the ground.

Dougie glanced at Cameron and rolled his eyes before responding, Give him a break, it’s not his fault.

Pete rounded on Dougie, eyes wide with disbelief. Are you fucking kidding? Who else’s fault is it? Yours? Mine? It’s not acceptable.

It was going to happen sooner or later, rasped Dougie, what has gone down was going to knock on, you must have realised that.

Pete shook his head. But he knew, he fucking knew and he kept us out of the loop, I mean what are we, just a drag along?

Of course not… Dougie was becoming exasperated.

He can’t behave like that, I’m screwed!

Calm down. Dougie implored.

Why the hell should I? I…

A hot tub is not a life essential! Dougie snapped. That much should be obvious even to you.

Fuck you! Pete was outraged, but Dougie was himself infuriated by his colleague’s single-minded self-interest and in no mood to be silenced.

He has had some deep and unpleasant shit to deal with recently and he needs our support, so bottle your whining why don’t you! And with that Dougie turned away.

Cigarette finished, show over, Cameron tossed the butt away and started towards the house. With the first step, a blackbird in a nearby bush set up a loud and insistent alarm call. Cameron spun round, shocked, eyes wide; as he did so the bird broke cover and flapped past just over his head, still calling out its warning. He watched it, transfixed, as it disappeared into the nearby woods and for a good while after it had completely vanished, only coming back to himself when Deanna touched him on the arm.

"Shall we? She enquired gently.

Cameron nodded and together they crossed the last few feet to where Dougie and Pete were waiting.

Any idea what this place was? Asked Dougie. Pete was wrestling with the lock on the door, struggling to turn the key in the rusty mechanism.

Cameron focused on Dougie, but he was still struggling to regain some composure. A geriatric psychiatric nursing home most recently; closed about twenty years ago after a series of scandals; patients tied to beds, deaths attributed to questionable medical practices. Human nature at its best.

Pete snorted as the lock came open. Dropping it on the ground, he pulled the panel open, You’re one to talk. He grunted then headed into the darkness within.

Dougie shook his head. Don’t mind him, he sighed, head firmly up arse.

As usual. Cameron added wryly.

I heard that! Pete shouted.

Cameron let that go and stepped back to allow Deanna in first.

Great location. Who found it? She asked.

Who cares? Blurted Pete from the gloom.

This annoyed Deanna, Jesus will you just shut up.

Seconded. Added Dougie and one by one they disappeared into the interior. Cameron though, lingered for a moment on the threshold, frowning, trying to place and comprehend a sense of foreboding that had gripped him. But when he was unable to separate it from his more general sense of emotional turmoil, he abandoned the effort and walked in and the door slowly swung closed behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

There was very little light within. The only source was a few pencil thin beams that entered through the odd crack at the side of the boards covering the windows. Each person carried a torch; these were duly switched on and separately they scanned their beams around, dusty searchlights exploring the space before them.

They were in a lobby area, empty save for some old rubbish sacks piled in a corner. Many layers of paint, added to the walls over the years, had been penetrated by the damp and now were cracked and peeling, creating a multicoloured frieze of some beauty.

Pete had already moved on and the flicker of his torch was visible in a corridor down which they now proceeded.

It was lined with rooms, most of

Reviews for Dark Glass

[bookstogetlostin · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a really creepy book! Things you can only see if they're reflected somewhere? Brr. I like how there is a different reasoning for the spirit's haunting than most of the time. So why have I 'only' given 3 stars?I didn't like the way of writing that much, but that is personal taste. What bothered me more was the characterization, which I found to be really cliched.I got it as an ARC via Storycartel in exchange for a honest review. Thank you.