Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) (36 page)

CRAWFORD FALLS
. He plummets through the icy darkness. The writhing ropes of light snake around him, binding him, biting into his skin with their freezing fingers. His blood hisses in his ears. His lungs burn with a savage hunger for air. He tumbles, spinning over and over, twisting and turning like a dry leaf on a gust of wind. But someone is reaching out to him, calling to him. Searching hands probe the darkness, plucking at his arms and legs, mauling his face, his hair. And there’s nothing he can do to stop them. Hushed voices whisper his name, muttering sinister promises of pain and revenge. A scream threatens to burst from his parched throat. But deep inside Crawford’s mind, there’s a stony splinter of resistance. He’ll never give in, never accept the fate laid out before him. He’ll fight it, beat it, if it’s the last thing he ever does.

And then, without warning, the darkness lets him go. It picks him up and hurls him away, spitting him out into a world of light and smoke and fire.

***

Crawford shook his head and immediately regretted it. A dizzying pain throbbed inside his skull, like the mother of all migraines. He was dazed, disoriented, and he could barely open his eyes against the bright daylight. Slowly, he stretched his fingers and moved his legs. He was lying down—lying on something cold and flat and hard.

He took a ragged breath and pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. He gasped for air and the bitter tang of wood smoke stung his throat. “Where the hell am I?” he muttered.

He forced his eyes to open properly, then he struggled to his feet. He stood tall and looked around. “I’ve done it,” he whispered. “I’m here.” And he was certain of it. He was back on the ledge in the Scaderstone quarry. The stone had obeyed him, done exactly what he wanted, and brought him back to 2014. Now he could do anything he pleased. He could finally take control of the stone and harness its power, bending it to his will.

He took a deep breath. And something rustled in the undergrowth behind him. He turned, and what he saw froze the blood in his veins.

The old man stood in a half crouch, as though only a moment ago, he’d been sitting beside his camp fire. He was dressed in rags, his long grey hair hung in greasy tangles, and his eyes were wild and wide in fear.

A bloody vagrant
, Crawford thought.
A trespasser
. He squared his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out! This is private property.”

The man flinched then grabbed something from the ground. A weapon. No—a hammer. A heavy, old-fashioned lump hammer.

“Listen to me,” Crawford said. “Just back away and you won’t be in trouble. Walk away, and I won’t need to call the police.”

The man’s eyes darted from side to side. He shifted his feet. But he didn’t back away.

“Go on,” Crawford said. “Off you go.” He raised his arm and pointed toward the quarry. “Go back out the way you came in, and don’t let me see you in here again.”

And the man charged at Crawford. He sprang forward, screaming at the top of his voice: an explosion of sinew and fury. With incredible speed, he closed the distance between them, raising the heavy hammer to his shoulder.

Crawford sidestepped but he was still weak and unsteady on his feet. For one awful heartbeat, he realised he’d moved too slowly. He raised his hands to protect himself, but he was too late. The hammer came down on his skull, connecting with a mighty crack. Crawford’s world turned white, then the darkness rushed in to claim him, and he fell to the ground.

***

Crawford moaned and opened his eyes. His lips were dry and dusty, and his throat dry. He took a breath, and a cough racked his chest. “Oh god,” he muttered. “Oh my god.” He lifted his head and a vicious jolt of pain arced across his skull.

He covered his face with his hands, trying to push the pain from his mind. A sudden image of the old man flashed across his brain, and a surge of adrenaline ran through Crawford’s body. He had to move. He had to get up and protect himself.

With one hand holding his head, he tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move his legs, and he couldn’t lift his upper body from the ground. He looked down and gasped in horror. His legs were covered in stones. A mound of rocks had been deliberately piled on top of him. It must have been the old man.

Fighting the wave of panic already swelling in his stomach, Crawford looked from side to side. On his left, there was another pile of stones, arranged in a long low mound: the shape of a grave. “No,” he murmured, and his voice was thick and slurred. “For god’s sake, no.”

Behind him, someone grunted. Crawford turned as far as he could, straining to see who was there. Perhaps there’d be someone who could help him, or at least someone he could talk to. He needed to buy some time, just a few precious seconds, so he could free himself.

But there was only the old man, and he was staggering toward Crawford, a murderous look in his eye, and a large flat stone in his hands.

“Get back!” Crawford said. “Get away from me!”

But the old man came closer and closer, staring at Crawford with cold hatred. He stood over him and raised the stone, holding it directly over Crawford’s head.

“No!” Crawford screamed. “No! You can’t—”

But Crawford’s last words were cut short, silenced by the dull thud of a fallen stone.

Epilogue

AT FIRST, WHEN WE ARRIVED
back in England, I spent every moment that I could with Cally. But after a while, things became more difficult. Cally left her job at the TV production company and started hunting for lecturing jobs at universities. She wanted to recapture her academic dreams and continue her research, and I encouraged her. But I was shocked at how quickly she was snapped up by Bristol University. Perhaps her TV role had boosted her profile more than she’d thought. I told her she had to go for it. It was what she wanted, deep down, and in many ways, we both needed to move on with our lives.

We stayed close after she moved to take up her new job, but it was complicated. We talked about me moving to Bristol, but I’d just been promoted at work, and I wasn’t sure whether she really wanted me hanging on her coat tails. So we made plans, but that’s all they were: plans. “One day,” we said. “One day soon.”

And we talked, or emailed, or messaged each other pretty much every day. But it seemed like neither of us was really sure what to do next.

And then something happened that changed my life. And I remember it as if it were yesterday.

It was a Sunday: my day to visit Dad.

He sat down next to me on the sofa and said, “Well I think you’re crazy. Go and join her. Don’t waste a single day.”

He thought Cally was wonderful. He credited her with the change he’d seen in me, and he’d taken to telling me that I stood taller, smiled more readily, and had a light in my eyes that had been absent for far too long.

“She’s the best thing that ever happened to you,” he said. “You’re a very lucky man.”

I sighed. “I know that, Dad. But sometimes…”

“What?”

“Sometimes, I wonder if it can last. We were thrown together in a weird situation. And now, everything’s different. And I don’t know if we can just carry on and pretend that France never happened.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Change can be difficult to handle, Jake. But it’s what makes life worth living. If every day is the same as the last, life gets very dull very quickly. And I should know.”

I sat back and looked around the room. “I guess so.”

“There’s something else though, isn’t there?”

I gave him a look. “No.”

“You don’t fool me, Jakey. What’s up? You’re not still worried about…about the black stone are you?”

I shook my head slowly. “No. Not worried. It’s not like that.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know. I just keep thinking about it. It’s like, everything’s all jumbled up. It keeps going around and around in my head. And I think it’s the same for Cally. It’s like, it’s always there, between us. But we don’t talk about it anymore. We’ve run out of things to say.”

Dad opened his mouth to speak then changed his mind and stood up. “I’m going to show you something.”

“What?”

“Hang on.” He crossed the room to his bookcase and pulled something from the top shelf. It was a large hard-backed notebook, and he held it out in front of him, brushing the dust from its cover. “The therapist told me to keep a journal,” he said, passing the book to me.

I took it from him. It was just a standard notebook, but I didn’t open it.

“You can look inside if you want.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know, Dad. Isn’t it personal? I don’t want to pry.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s nothing too drastic in it.”

I opened the book and turned the pages without really reading anything. The first few pages were hardly used, and most of the scribbled sentences had been crossed out. But then, as I got farther into the book, I saw that he’d written an account of everything that happened after I disappeared.

“It really helped,” he said. “It got the thoughts out of my head and onto the paper. I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, but it helped me to write everything down. It helped me to put things into perspective.”

“So, what are you saying?” I studied his expression. “I hate to say this, Dad, but I’m not…I’m not ill.”

“I know. I know. But maybe, if you try writing it all down, you’ll be able to stop thinking about it all the time. It worked for me.”

I looked down at the book and let my eyes wander over the rows of neat handwriting. Two words jumped out at me, and a shiver ran down my spine:
baseball bat
. The words blurred before my eyes and in my mind I saw an image on a phone, a hotel bathroom, dark blood splashing on stark white tiles.

I closed the book and handed it back to Dad. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to dredge it all back up.”

He took the book from me and put it back in its place on the shelf before he answered. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said carefully. “It’s hard to describe, but it’s kind of empowering.”

I grimaced. “Don’t go all New Age on me.”

He laughed. “Will you try it, Jake? Go on, give it a go.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Maybe later, when I get home.”

“It’s not difficult. It’s not like you have to show anyone. It’s just for you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Give it a rest, Dad. I said I’ll think about it, all right?”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Good lad.”

***

So here it is: an account of everything that happened. I know it sounds like an urban myth: the black stone that can take you through time. But that’s not my style.

You see, I’ve never liked urban myths. I’ve never liked pretending to believe in them, and I’ve never understood why everyone else doesn’t see straight through them. Why have those stories always happened to a friend of a friend—someone you’ve never met? Why does everyone always smile and nod and pull the right faces, when they must know the stories aren’t true?

So whenever people spouted the myths about Scaderstone Pit, I never took much notice. It was just an old quarry—nothing more. I never believed in the rumours of discarded dynamite. It had decayed, they said. It exploded at the slightest touch, had even blown someone’s hand off. And I shrugged off the talk of the toxic waste. It was dumped in the dead of night, they said. The canisters rusting away, leaking deadly poisons that could blind you, burn your lungs. I laughed at the ghost stories. You could hear the moans, they said, of quarrymen buried alive and never found. You could see their nightwalking souls, searching for their poor crushed bodies.

I didn’t believe any of it—not one word. Now, after everything that’s happened, I wonder whether I should’ve listened. Maybe, if I’d taken those tales seriously, all these things would’ve happened to someone else, and I could’ve smiled and said that it was all nonsense.

But my story is not an urban myth. And it did not happen to someone else, but to me. I’ve set it down as best I can remember. Whether you believe it or not, is up to you.