‘My
friend?’
She glanced behind him. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry sir,’
she said looking perplexed. ‘I thought I saw somebody come in
with you.’
His room was very small, but clean and there were fresh flowers in
the window. Jack unpacked and then decided to have a closer look at
the walking stick. It was very, very old. Much older than three hundred
years, he thought. Murdo could not have had it made. Then to his delight,
he found some lettering. It was in Latin and hard to decipher at first,
but roughly translated it read mysteriously: ‘He comes for what
is his.’
Well, better than Made in China, thought Jack with a grin. Putting
it in the wardrobe he went down for dinner. Afterwards he had a drink
in the bar served to him by the manager; a chatter, dapper little
man.
‘Do you know anything about a Doctor Murdo?’ asked Jack
‘Oh, he was quite notorious, sir. He was once the vicar here,
then he took to devil worship. They say he still walks the churchyard
and, if you listen really hard, you can hear the tapping of his stick.’
‘His stick?’
The manager chuckled. ‘Made for him by the devil himself, no
less. It’s a load of nonsense of course, but you would be surprised
how many people believe it!’ |
On
returning to his room, Jack was alarmed to find the wardrobe door
ajar. Then he noticed his bed had been turned down. The manager’s
wife nosing about, he supposed. But on closing the wardrobe door,
he locked it and removed the key.
He slept fitfully, disturbed by a constant buzzing sound in the
room, as if a fly were trying to find its way out.
‘Open the window, for God’s sake, open the window,’
muttered Jack drowsily. Then the banging began.
In his dream-like state, he could see a blacksmith. A bearded giant
of a man, his face and chest grimy with sweat, as he pounded away
at a piece of metal. Then Jack realised to his horror that it wasn’t
a dream. He could actually hear loud banging, and it was coming
from inside the wardrobe. His heart racing, he sat up. As his eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom he saw the outline of a person standing
by the wardrobe.
Jack fumbled with the light switch. As it clicked on, the sound
abruptly ceased and the figure vanished. But it was no dream, for
down the centre of the wardrobe was a huge crack. There was a knock
at his door; it was the worried manager in his dressing gown: ‘Is
everything alright, sir? There was a lot of noise coming from your
room.’ |
