Free The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert Page B

rolled across the floor, unravelling as it went. Ellen looked up at the low ceiling. The sound - so real, so … so normal - came yet again. The sound of water. Water being quietly splashed.
    Simon liked to play with water.
    Simon liked his bathtime.
    Until that last…
    She dropped the knitting, the needles clicking together one last time as they hit the floor.
    ‘Simon …?’ Her call was soft, uncertain.
    A faint splash of water again.
    Ellen took a step towards the stairs.
    ‘Have you come back, Simon?’
    A smile as uncertain as her voice played on her lips.
    She continued the journey to the foot of the stairs and peered upwards as if expecting to see her dead son on the landing above. But no, of course not, he wouldn’t be there. The sound had come from the bathroom. Simon would be in the bath, playing with the water like he always used to.
    She trod the first step. Then the next.
    More loudly this time she said, ‘Simon?’ and her steps became more hurried.
    She stumbled and her hands held on to the higher steps to steady herself. It didn’t take long to climb the rest of the stairs and within moments Ellen was at the top, on the small landing that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom.
    The bathroom door was ajar.
    And the sounds were even clearer now.
    Someone was in the bath. Simon was in the bath. Where he had … the word was impossible for her to acknowledge … where he had …
    ‘Simon!’
    The splashing ceased.
    ‘Simon.’ This time she whispered the name. ‘I’m coming to you.’ Her smile had returned, and it was more sure.
    Ellen raised her hand to push open the bathroom door, and she contained her eagerness, not wanting to startle him, afraid he would go away again, fade as he had done before.
    Gently she pressed against the door.
    And screamed when she saw the awful blackened thing leaning over the bath, partly obscuring the tiny white figure that it held beneath the water with its charred arms.

9
    T HE REVEREND EDMUND LOCKWOOD’S physical stature was diminished somewhat by his stooped shoulders and the gauntness that shadowed his eyes and cheeks. In his youth, Ash considered as he studied the clergyman standing by the drawing-room window and looking out at the woodland beyond, he would surely have presented a formidable figure, well over six feet and with a mien that indicated deep inner convictions. His hair was an uneven mixture of grey and black, swept back over his ears and accentuating his high forehead and a nose that appeared to have been broken at some time, for it was hooked and bent slightly to the right. He bore little resemblance to his daughter, save for his eyes, and even they were a shade paler. They were also piercing, so much so that the investigator had felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny when Grace had introduced him to her father earlier. Ash had looked away, perhaps afraid the cleric would see the cynicism that lay within.
    He had been surprised at the lack of strength in the other man’s grip when they had first shaken hands, but then realized that the Reverend Lockwood’s knuckles were gnarled and the joints of his fingers were red and swollen as if from arthritis. Any pressure probably caused him considerable pain.
    Ash was seated on a comfortable drop-arm sofa before a large brick fireplace, whose long grate was filled with old drylogs. The room was cool and smelled of dusty books and old leather, the latter from two worn armchairs, their surfaces scratched and even torn in parts; beams ran along the low ceiling and a stout post in the room’s centre helped support the floor above.
    ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ he asked, already reaching for the pack in his jacket pocket.
    Reverend Lockwood swung round towards him with a start, as though he had quite forgotten the investigator’s presence for a few moments.
    ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ he replied brusquely.
    Ash stilled his hand and regarded the other man coolly. At that moment Grace Lockwood entered