Read Online The Ghosts of Sleath by James Herbert - Free Book Online Page A

recognition.
    But it was she who said: ‘Have we met before?’
    Somehow he knew they hadn’t, despite his feelings when they had touched. Nevertheless, he took time to search his memory. He placed her in her late twenties, an attractive woman whose voice was as soft as her features. Her skin was slightly tanned, emphasizing the blueness of her eyes, and she wore little make-up. Although not glamorous, he realized she was one of those women who grew more appealing by themoment; the longer he studied her face, the more beautiful she seemed to become. He knew that if he had met her before she would not have been forgotten.
    He cleared his throat and said, ‘Uh, no, I don’t think so.’
    She shook her head, as though uncertain. She shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re right. You looked familiar, that was all.’
    Did he really? Or was she confused by the same sensation he, himself, had felt when they had confronted each other? But now even that was receding from him, becoming vague, an initial reaction that was less significant by the moment, and he knew that soon he would be wondering if the whole thing had been precipitated by his own overwrought imagination. In all probability, his sudden appearance around the corner of the church had only startled the clergyman’s daughter and there had been no sharing of a psychic experience. Get a grip, Ash, he told himself, and stop imagining everyone else is as crazy as you.
    Again he felt awkward and he quickly said, ‘You say your father will be home soon?’
    ‘Yes, for lunch. I’ll be returning there myself in a few minutes, so we can walk together, if you like.’
    ‘Fine. Is it far?’ He was just making conversation.
    ‘Not very. Wait for me to lay these flowers, then we’ll go.’
    He watched her cut through the graves, her movements appropriate to her name, her white shirt and blue skirt bright among the grey, decaying tombstones. Some distance away she came to a halt and bent down to rest the bouquet of flowers. She straightened, but remained there, her head bowed as if in prayer.
    As she made her way back to him she disturbed a butterfly that had settled on a headstone and it fluttered around her, white and delicate in the sunlight. He saw her smile and her lips moved as if she were speaking to it. The butterfly circled her twice before flitting away to disappear into a clump of high grass near the edge of the graveyard.
    Grace Lockwood’s smile was directed at him as she drewnear and she studied him with an interest that was almost disconcerting.
    ‘I’ve never met a ghost hunter before,’ she said when she reached him. ‘You’re not quite what I imagined.’
    ‘You thought I’d be wearing a cape, and maybe a black hat’
    ‘With a beard, at least. Oh, and a bible under your arm.’
    ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
    ‘You haven’t.’ She flicked her head towards the village. ‘Have you had a chance to see much yet?’
    ‘I took in some of it on the way up here,’ he told her. ‘It’s quaint. I’m surprised you don’t get more tourists.’
    ‘Sometimes they find us, even though we make a conscious effort to keep out of the tourist guides.’
    ‘I can understand why. Sleath would certainly be an attraction, particularly for Americans and Japanese. They’d love a genuine slice of olde England.’
    ‘We prefer our privacy.’ She looked past his shoulder, as if disturbed. ‘We’re almost hidden away and the villagers do their best to keep the secret to themselves.’
    ‘Secret?’
    ‘I mean how lovely it is here. We’re a tight community, Mr Ash, and warm welcomes aren’t generally extended to outsiders.’
    He gave a wry smile. ‘I can confirm that. Even the landlord at the Black Boar didn’t seem overjoyed with my booking.’
    ‘You’re staying there?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Tom Ginty’s all right. A bit brusque at first, but friendly enough once he gets to know you.’
    Ash refrained from telling her that Ginty’s offhandedness only surfaced