1.
Stella Entwistle approached the old yellow brick offices that she had been directed to and paused at the solid door marked, in faded yellow lettering, ‘Tradesmen’s Entrance’. She tutted at the outdated terminology before pushing it open. The small, dingy office that greeted her had a faintly musty smell that, in Stella’s mind, would have benefited greatly from an essential oil diffuser – bergamot or chamomile perhaps. The timber matchboard walls were in the local train operator’s dull green livery and a wooden counter and glass screen had been clumsily inserted across the back wall, blocking out any natural light There was no-one behind the screen, but a button on the worn counter instructed her, via a peeling sellotaped note in faded blue biro, to ring for service. Stella’s carefully manicured forefinger pressed firmly on the grubby white button.
Presently a small, grey-haired man shuffled into view via a hidden door at the back, wiping his lips with a white handkerchief. He wore a crumpled grey shirt beneath a darker waistcoat and a pair of round lens glasses were hanging on a cord around his neck. His name was Peter Hill according to his nametag. He straightened his back and placed the glasses on his nose, where they sat somewhat precariously. A few cake crumbs fell from the corner of his mouth onto the counter below.
“Can I help you, Miss?” His tone was not unfriendly, but there was a hint of an assumption in his voice that this well-dressed young woman in front of him was most likely in the wrong place.
“My name is Stella, from TPL Associates. I’m here for the keys to the old cab road. You should have received an e-mail, hopefully?” Stella gave him a weak smile with red painted lips and flicked her long, wavy auburn-streaked hair from her forehead. She made a mental note to herself to make an appointment at the hairdresser.
“Ah yes, of course Miss. I do recall now as it happens.” After a pause he added “We thought you’d be here earlier.”
“I’ve had a long day, I’m afraid. This is my last stop.” There was a note of impatience in her voice.
“Right you are Miss. I’ll just get the keys for you then.”
After what seemed to Stella an unfeasibly long time just to retrieve some keys, Peter Hill reappeared from the back office and slid a large metal loop, with two hefty keys attached, under the glass screen.
“You’ll have to bring them back in the morning now though. We’ll be closing shortly.” At this he gestured towards the large, round clock on the wall behind him, with its Roman numeral numbering showing almost 5.00 o’clock.
“That’s fine. I’ve got accommodation booked here for the night.”
“Down from London are you, Miss?” His bushy grey eyebrows arched slightly as he spoke.
“That’s where our offices are, yes.”
“A trace of a northern accent there though I think. Lancashire perhaps?” He was stroking his chin now.
Stella tried to hide her irritation at this needless line of questioning.
Yes, that’s’ where I was born, near Bolton. But we moved away when I was quite young. Anyway, I’m running late and . . . “
Stella was interrupted before she could finish, which only served to heighten her growing irritation.
“Looking for somewhere to film isn’t it?”
“It’s for a photography shoot actually, a fashion shoot for a glossy magazine.” Stella unnecessarily adopted a slightly condescending tone for this last remark.
Peter Hill nodded knowingly, but Stella very much doubted that Peter Hill and fashion had ever made an acquaintance.
“There are strip lights down there, Miss but you’ll need a proper torch if you go up the far end. I wouldn’t advise that though. Best to stay in the light. And I hope you’ve got some sensible shoes, those cobbles are a bit uneven and when its dark they can be quite slippery and . . .” His voice trailed off and he peered doubtfully at her over his glasses.
Stella looked down at her specially bought lace-up boots in desert camouflage, then tapped the side of her chocolate-brown canvas shoulder bag to indicate that she had indeed brought a torch. She smiled thinly at him.
“I’ve got everything I need thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that she turned and headed the few steps towards the exit. As Stella pulled the dull brass handle of the door, she felt him watching her and turned to wave the heavy keys, which jangled softly as she did so.
“You will be careful in there, won’t you Miss?” Peter Hill removed his glasses and began polishing them on his waistcoat as he looked at her.
Stella couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something different in his tone as he said this. Something more . . . earnest. She nodded at him, closed the door and headed back out with a sigh of relief. Light from the vast glazed roof flooded the station concourse, which was now filling up with evening commuters and students. Stella headed through the throng to the main exit, passed the long line of queuing taxis and turned down the steep hill to her left for the short walk to her last destination for the day.
2.
Out in the fresh March air and away from the rather unnerving encounter with Peter Hill, Stella felt a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. Weak sunshine was slowly forcing its way through the high cloud. Soon she was standing outside the large but unassuming wooden doors that led to the long-disused cab road, which had once taken Victorian passengers up to the platforms, in the days when steam powered the locomotives and train travel was still something of a novelty. Weathered brown paint peeled from the doors and the lock plate was ringed by rust.
Stella really hoped that this place was going to be the one. It had to be. None of the others she had seen that day really met the brief she had been given: ‘Historic but somewhat decrepit, mysterious, dark, edgy, a touch of Gothic.’ For the sake of her career Stella really needed this. She had been at the company for over three years now and had seen others progress to more senior positions and more glamorous assignments, whilst she was still sent to places like this by overcrowded, second class train. Stella was convinced that it was her northern, working-class roots that were holding back her career. It had never occurred to her that her lack of progression might have been due to her own failings.
After a little trial and error, the two large keys worked in unison and one of the heavy doors swung slowly inwards, its weight causing the old metal hinges to creak slightly under the strain. Stepping over the raised threshold, she found the large switch box on the wall to her right and the row of white strip lights flickered slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, into life. Above the switch box she saw an old wooden signboard that spelt ‘DANGER’ in faded red letters, with the recognizable electric shock symbol below it.
Turning to face the now lit space, Stella blinked and saw that beyond a high brick arch a long, narrow tunnel-like space unfolded in front of her like an unfinished study in perspective. Closing the door behind her and venturing in, her eyes gradually accustomed themselves to the stark artificial light. The yellow/brown brick walls were darkened by damp and punctuated by irregular arched niches, like long-blocked windows. Overhead, a long raft of rusty steel beams supported the wooden decking that now formed the platform above and, hung from these, the strip lights just about managed to cast their harsh reach to the walls on each side.
Making her way cautiously forward, Stella saw that the rising cobbled floor disappeared into pitch-black at the far end of the view and she briefly shivered a little. Noise from the station above filtered through the decking and she could hear the faint sounds of footsteps and announcements. Then came a scurrying sound from closer by, somewhere to her right. It unsettled her. Stella hoped it wasn’t a rat. The old abandoned mental hospital that she had visited earlier in the day had been home to various creepy crawlies, but she couldn’t imagine anything worse than encountering rats. The scurrying sound did not return, however, so Stella resumed her tentative forward motion.
She knew already though, without any doubt, that this was the perfect location. All the boxes ticked. She could turn around now and be in her hotel room with a glass of white wine in her hand, her feet free of the unyielding new leather, within half an hour. But something about the darkness at the far end of the cab road drew her further and further in, until she reached the point where the overhead lights now barely penetrated and the background noises from the station were barely audible. The air became cooler and stiller. Stella took the large torch from her voluminous bag and shone it forward, moving it from side to side in an arc, but there was little to see except the sheen of the cobbles and a cloud of vapour as she breathed. She took another few steps. When she looked down, the lime green laces of her new boots were just visible above the cobbles as she moved.
As Stella involuntarily drew herself yet deeper into the now silent blackness, something seemed to flicker momentarily, like a yellowish-orange flame somewhere distant. Somewhere at the far end, wherever the end was. Then she saw it again. It remained still at first, but then began to sway very slightly from side to side and seemed to be getting closer. Stella was about to shout out ‘hello’ when she heard a sound coming from behind her. Not rats this time. It took her a few seconds to register what it was but then she understood that, unmistakably, it was the sound of horses’ hooves trotting on the cobbles, getting louder. She swung wildly round and shone the torch back in the direction she had come from, but once again the beam of light failed to penetrate very far. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped. Stella froze, then slowly turned her head and peered again in the direction of the yellowish light. But it too had gone. She waited a minute or so, hardly daring to breathe now, but saw or heard nothing more. Not even a scurrying rat.
Walking briskly back, her breathing somewhat ragged, Stella thought that she heard an echo of hooves on cobbles again, this time coming from the far end, behind her. She broke into a jog and was soon relieved to once again be embraced by the reach of the strip lights and then to see the large wooden doors and appreciate the sense of security that they conveyed; nothing had come through there. She came to a halt and caught her breath. Instinctively her hand reached into her pocket for the reassuring touch of the heavy keys and it remained there until she had reached the entrance. Taking one last, cautious look behind her, she opened the door and reached back to flick the old light switch up, closing the heavy door with a satisfying slam before she could catch another sight of the darkness within.
3.
Once outside again Stella realised that she must have been in there longer than she had thought. Twilight had fallen stealthily and a damp mist had crept in from the sea. The previously busy street was strangely quiet now; only the warm, inviting glow from the pub windows opposite suggested that life was going on its usual way. Stella buttoned up her long tan coat and pulled the collar closely around her neck. Taking out her ’phone Stella messaged her boss, Frank, to let him know that she had been successful. She would ring him in the morning with all the details. Well, perhaps not all. There was no need to mention the strange events at the dark end, was there? She was just tired, that was all. It had been a long and stressful day. Her eyes felt dry and her feet were hurting. That was all. Nothing that a large glass of wine and a comfortable hotel bed wouldn’t put right. Perhaps a nice pasta dish in the hotel restaurant too and a chance to catch up on her socials. Tomorrow morning, she would return the keys and be on the train back to London.
These thoughts calmed Stella greatly and, looking down at her ’phone’s bright screen, she wandered idly around the corner into the now rather nondescript area where the old railway goods yard had once flourished. She leaned against a low brick wall to take the weight off her aching feet, but an involuntary shiver ran through her and she almost lost the grip on her ’phone. It must be the damp air she thought and took out a pair of lime green suede gloves from her bag. Tapping at the screen with a gloved forefinger, she was about to order a taxi when the screen suddenly went dark. At the same time, something in her peripheral vision startled her and made her look up.
A little distance away to her left she could make out the silhouette of a tall, imposing figure in a long coat and a tall hat. In his right hand he held an old-fashioned lantern of some kind, its flickering yellowish glow illuminating the whirling swirls of the deepening mist. Stella shivered once again and gripped the top of the wall with her free hand, feeling the damp, clammy cold of its surface even through her glove. Coming from somewhere behind the dark figure she now heard a horse whinny and then, once again, the distinctive sound of horses’ hooves trotting, becoming louder and closer. Above this sound, and closer still, came a man’s deep rasping voice, strident and clear.
“Your cab, Miss.”
At these words the tall figure drew nearer and slowly lifted the swaying lantern up to its full head height, as if it were the rising lamp of hell. Stella froze as rigid as the wall. There, from the cast of the sickly yellowish glow, she saw that where the tall figure’s face should have been, beneath the brim of the hat, there was nothing but a pitch-black abyss that even the ever-deepening mist could not veil.
