Free The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert Page A

bad thoughts at bay. But every once in a while her gaze went beyond the points of the needles to become unfocused, unseeing, and her thoughts drifted into a dark reverie of things best forgotten.
    ‘Oh, Simon …’ she murmured and the clicking ceased as she rested her hands on her lap. Sunlight shone fierce and bright through the closed window, causing the grey threads in her dark hair to sparkle silver. A bee’s furry body made the tiniest thud against the windowpane and its drone grew to an angry buzz as it exerted pressure against the invisible barrier. Defeated, it flew off, back to the sweet nectar of garden flowers, its dance elaborate, its wrath forgotten.
    Ellen sighed. Such a good boy was Simon. Such an innocent. But why hadn’t he visited her for three days now? Had shedone something wrong? Was he angry with her? She bit into her lower lip and her chest tightened to restrain the sob that swelled there. Mustn’t cry. Crying upset Simon. Nevertheless, a mistiness settled over her eyes and she blinked, forcing a teardrop from them. It trailed down her cheek, tickling her skin, and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.
    She gazed at the wool spread across her lap. Simon liked red. The colour made him feel happy, he always said. Happy? What happiness had her poor little mite ever known? Only when it was just the two of them, together, playing games, tending their little garden, even shopping. And sharing childish jokes, giggling together, watching television together, together … The key turning in the lock soon spoilt that happiness. Simon’s face would change, it would become frightened, frantic almost, the moment he heard a foot on the doorstep. He would stare at the door as the key jiggled in the lock, then sink into his mother when it began to open.
    How they both hated it when he came into the room, filling the air with his vile stench of whisky and cigarettes and the foul odour of his unwashed body! How they wanted to run and hide from his evil, dirty , ways! How -
    With a sharp movement, she raised the knitting again, forcing the terrible memories from her mind.
    Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one …
    Even after his father’s death little Simon was afraid. Still he watched the front door with fear in his eyes whenever he heard a sound outside, even though she assured him his father was gone, that he would bother them no more, that it truly was just the two of them now. Together … But still the nightmares, the dreams of footsteps on the stairway when there was really no one there, no one to creep into his room to torment him, to do those horrible things -
    Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, slip one …
    Put it away from you, Ellen! Forget those things. He was gone . It was only her and Simon now. Despite what everybody else said, what they believed. What did they know? Theythought Simon had left her, but no, he wouldn’t do that, not her Simon. He loved his mummy too much. She had explained that to the priest, but he had chided her, told her it wasn’t so, that Simon was … that Simon was …
    Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit …
    Her nimble fingers worked fast, faster, their movement difficult to follow. Stitches were dropped, the pattern began to become senseless.
    But where was Simon now? Today? Yesterday? The day before? Why hadn’t he returned? Did he blame … did he blame …
    … Me …?
    The clicking stopped. The room was quiet once more.
    Could he blame … his mother? Oh Simon, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t know … didn’t understand the things … your father … did … to you …
    She resumed the knitting, but her action was slow, leaden.
    Knit … one … purl … one … knit … drop …
    A sound from the stairs.
    She turned her head. She listened.
    It came again. But it was from above, not the stairs. A commonplace noise, an ordinary, everyday sound.
    Ellen began to rise from the chair.
    The red ball of wool slipped from the stool and