It was, as convention dictates for such an event as this, a dark and stormy night. The old house on the hill was doing its best to rise to the occasion. Shutters banged in the wind, the odd tile slipped and plummeted to a gory terracotta death on the path below and ragged curtains swept the remnants of gabled windows long broken by daring miscreants.
Let the camera of the eye pan across the front of the house; watch as it takes a sweeping turn around the side, up the back wall and, as an owl on a branch, perches upon the roof to gaze at the dark landscape before the house.
The storm echoing around rolling hills, barren save for a small patch of dark woodland near the house. A twisting, potholed road untended for decades.
A light appears in the distance; slowly, almost imperceptibly, getting closer.
Soon, over the noise of the storm, the sound of a car can be heard, battling its way slowly along the beaten track toward the house, its sole occupant struggling to see through the rain-lashed windscreen.
Let the camera tilt downward to follow the car as it draws up to the front of the house, coughs and dies with a shuddering gasp. Slowly fade to black as its occupant climbs out, map held over its head in a pathetic attempt to keep the rain off.
Dan Rackham, for it was indeed he, hurried into the porch of the old house and worried at the lock with the huge iron key that he’d been given along with the deeds for the house. Reflecting bitterly that he’d much rather be in India, he managed to trip the lock and heaved at the iron-clad oak door. With an ominous and thoroughly expected creak, the great door yielded to Dan’s shoulder.
A sudden flash of lightning lit the hallway and Dan froze, half inside the door with trembling hand on the knob. Was that a figure in the corner at the far end? A tall, gangly figure clad in black robes with a shock of wispy grey hair? Thunder smashed its cymbalistic cacophony in the clouds above and Dan remained rooted to the spot.
A longer blast of flickering light from the heavens revealed a simple coat-stand bedecked with cobwebs and a big black great-coat.
Chiding himself for his foolishness, Dan entered the hallway and heaved the door closed. It slammed into place with a crash as the thunder rolled its beastly chorus once more.
Dan rummaged in his bag for matches and candles; soon he had lit two candles and placed them on musty shelves in the hallway. Further rucksack rummaging brought forth a bottle of paraffin. Taking down an old hurricane lamp from its bracket on the wall, he filled the reservoir and applied flame to wick.
Bearing his steady saviour, Dan explored the reception rooms of the old house. Dust-sheet covered furniture filled all the rooms, as did cobwebs and eerie shadows. Into the drawing-room went our hero, and was surprised to find all the windows intact. Setting to his task, Dan found more lamps and soon the shadows, although not banished entirely, were at least demoted to a flickering retirement in dusty corners.
A cheery fire was soon lit in the grate and warmth began to spread once more into the room; warmth unfelt for many a long year.
Dan settled into an armchair by the fire and pondered the peculiar position he now found himself in.
Who, or what, was Great Uncle Isaiah? Dan’s father had mentioned him once, and only once, with the caveat that he should never be spoken of again. This was at the ripe old age of 12, reflected Dan. He’d been up into the loft, looking through old papers, and had found a photo of Great Uncle Isaiah. In it he was wearing a big black great-coat, a tricorn hat, an eye-patch and he also had a wooden leg. Such a remarkable looking gent aroused great interest in young Dan, who took the picture to his Father and demanded to know all about his Piratey Uncle. A grim look passed over Father’s face and he took the picture from Dan.
�This is your Great Uncle Isaiah. He’s a bad man and rightly shunned by the family. I will not have you mention his name in this house, nor will I pollute your young mind with tales of his evil deeds. If I catch you in the loft again, you’ll be in big trouble. Understand?�
The next day, Dan watched with sadness as his Father lit a bonfire in the garden and consigned many old papers to an ashy end.
Over time Dan grew up and became a fine adventurer, at least in his own mind. He lived a simple enough life, working as an assistant manager in the local Tesco during the day and scribbling stories in his dingy little hovel at night; tales of derring-do on the high seas and suchlike.
One day a letter from the family solicitor arrived on his doormat, bearing the news of his Great Uncle Isaiah’s sudden demise. He’d died on a fishing trawler which had sunk in the storm-lashed waters of the Cape of Good Hope. His body was never found but the sole survivor, a swarthy fisherman named Harris, testified that he’d seen Isaiah struck by a falling mast and had been sent to a watery grave. The inquest was brief, a funeral with an empty coffin followed soon after and then the solicitor had gathered the family together to read Great Uncle Isaiah’s will. All that remained of Isaiah’s suspected, at least in Dan’s mind, piratey treasure hoarde was this creaky old house and that had been left, mysteriously, to Dan. There was no money, no valuable possessions, just this old dump and an ancient attaché case full of musty old papers that the solicitor had been instructed to keep safe until Isaiah’s death.
Dan’s inspiration for his adventurous yet sadly unpublished yarns was gone to Davy Jones’ Locker.
Feeling understandably miffed, Dan shook himself from his reverie and got up to wander around the room. The storm still muttered without, but the fire made the place fair cosy. Investigation of an old cabinet in the corner brought forth a bottle of Navy Rum and this cheered Dan’s spirits no end. He returned to his armchair and poured himself a large measure of Rum, which he sipped whilst leafing through Great Uncle Isaiah’s old papers. Much swigging of Rum and riffling through old papers led Dan to conclude that nothing of any importance lay within the attaché case, just a load of old court summonses for piracy and the odd restraining order or two. Nothing about any hidden treasure. Not a scrap.
In a fit of drunken frustration, Dan flung the battered old bag onto the roaring fire. As the case flew to its fiery doom, a single scrap of paper escaped and fluttered to Dan’s feet. This he picked up and examined with growing interest. His imagination running wild, Dan hoped against hope that it was a treasure map. He unfolded the paper and, disappointment tugging at his weary heart, saw a simple Land Registry chart of the grounds of Great Uncle Isaiah’s tatty old house. It showed the boundaries of the estate, about 2 square miles if Dan was any judge. It showed the house itself, the small wooded area to the east and that was about it. Wearily he laid the chart on the table at his elbow and settled down for a bit of a snooze in his chair.
The storm slowly petered out as Dan slept drunkenly in his chair. As he slept, the fire decomposed into glowing embers and the lamps dimmed, spluttered and died.
Dan awoke around midnight to a peculiar scraping sound.
*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*
Steeling himself he rose from the high-backed armchair so that he might listen more carefully. It appeared to be coming from the window, across which a faded red curtain was draped. Daring and double-daring his foolish drunken self, Dan plucked up the courage to tug the curtain aside. To his chagrin there was a branch idly tapping its twiggy fingers upon the window, waving to and fro in time with the gusting wind.
Cursing his foolish imagination, his knackered old car that stopped him leaving this dump and the lack of a telephone, Dan slumped back into his chair and returned to the arms of Morpheus.
The wind blew hard outside and swept away the clouds. It blew harder still and whistled down the chimney.
Dan awoke again to the rapid tapping as the branch at the window sped its scraping taunts.
*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*
No. The sound was coming from somewhere else.
Dan, now alert and horribly sober, sat bolt upright.
*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*
It was coming from the hallway.
*ClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeeeClonkEeeeeee*
Silence. An oppressive one at that. A real gut-wrencher of a silence.
Dan froze, cold sweat tickling the back of his neck. The wind howled and raged outside but all he could hear was the silence. With a mighty crash the door flew open.
In the darkness Dan could just make out the doorway, but could see no-one there.
Trembling, Dan stood up. He moved to the window and flung the curtain aside thinking to open the window and leave before he found out what had opened the door. As he opened the curtain, revealing a magnificent full moon which flooded the room with its pale light, the wind blew hard around the house, through the smashed upstairs windows, into the drawing-room where Dan stood a-quaking at the window and picked up the chart that had been laid on the table. This was cast full face at the tall window and stuck there, the moonlight shining through the thin paper.
Dan stared in horror as this happened; horror which gave way to amazement. The chart was a curious thing indeed. Pressed against the window Dan could clearly see faint silvery lines traced upon the map.
The lines, accompanied by neat copper-plate writing, clearly led to a large “X� which seemed to hover just over the outline of the woodland near the house.
Suddenly the door crashed shut again and the wind dropped, allowing the chart to fall from the window.
In the following moments Dan managed to unfreeze his silly self and pick up the map. This he tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket and began a fruitless search for matches to relight a lamp, intending to get a better look at the map and to bring some sort of comfort back to the now disturbingly chilly drawing-room. Finding none, Dan shuffled back to his armchair to get some shut-eye. He could always walk to the nearest town for supplies tomorrow, get the place tidied up a bit and maybe even find a good glazier to sort out the upstairs windows. Comfort not fright, that was the key.
The wind seemed to have blown the warmth out of the room and Dan could not get comfy. He remembered the big black great-coat in the hall, and decided to go fetch it. As he reached the door, he felt a shiver run up his spine.
�Stupid idiot� he told himself, “There’s nothing odd here, it’s just a creaky, draughty old house�.
With that he opened the door, and nearly died of fright. There, where once had stood the old coat-stand with its cobwebs and ancient big black great-coat, stood a tall gangly figure. It had its back to Dan, but slowly turned on its wooden leg to face him as he stood there gibbering like an idiot. The figure brandished a cutlass at him and screamed in a deep guttural roar. “Yarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!� quoth the figure and Dan dropped down in a dead faint, the last thing he saw being the gnarled old face of Great Uncle Isaiah himself.
When Dan awoke in his armchair, dawn had cast her rosy fingers about the sky and he could see the sun peeking above the woods near the house. He rubbed at his stiff neck and suddenly the memory of the previous night caught him full in the face. Cowering under the big black great-coat that he was snuggled under, he reached into his jacket pocket.
The map was gone.
‹Bwahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!›
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