The Dark Corners Box Set Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

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  The Correction Floor

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  All the Darkness is Alive

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  Go Back to Sleep

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  Dark Corners Boxset 1

  Robert Scott-Norton

  Dark Corners Boxset 1

  Copyright © 2020 Robert Scott-Norton

  ebook Edition, Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Also by Robert Scott-Norton

  Tombs

  Operation Snowflake

  The Face Stealer

  The Faceless Stratagem

  Tombs Rising

  The Remnant Keeper

  The Remnant Vault

  The Infinity Mainframe

  Dark Corners

  The Correction Floor

  All the Darkness is Alive

  Go Back to Sleep

  Short Stories

  The Haunting of Classroom 6

  Midnight Guests

  For a complete list of books and links where to buy, please check out Robert’s website.

  The Correction Floor

  Robert Scott-Norton

  1

  Seth took the last step, felt the space under his foot, then tipped forward off the edge of the roof into the darkness.

  That initial drop when the ground beneath his feet was no more made him gasp, but then the chill air rushed past his face, pulling at his features, making it impossible to draw another breath. His eyes stung with the cold. Random thoughts flitted across his mind.

  Twenty-eight was no age to die.

  Will his parents come to the funeral? Will anyone?

  Time slowed, letting him experience the full terror of the moment. He could still hear the shouts of rage from the rooftop he’d exited a second earlier, and the fire blazing. If he survived this fall that sound would haunt him.

  The people he’d saved would remember that sound as well.

  Coming to the hospital had been a mistake. But, it had been his mistake to make. Even if the invitation hadn’t been offered, he’d have found his way back here one day. Seth’s path often felt uncomfortably laid out. He didn't believe in fate, never wanted to entertain the idea. And yet, and yet… his life had come full circle.

  He didn’t think he was about to scream.

  The night air on his bare skin did little to ease the discomfort from his torn back. Blood rushed through his ears, his heartbeat fought the pressure, reminding him he was still alive. There was hope. Being alive meant he still had a chance.

  The ground was racing towards him.

  Did he do good tonight? He hadn’t been able to save them all. He’d tried and failed. What would his parents think of that? Who’d remember to tell the press that Seth Loomis had tried to save these people tonight?

  To hell with his parents. No, to hell with them all.

  The pain from his back slowed his thoughts and dragged him back to real time. He hadn’t avoided injuries from the things on the roof. A hospital visit would be in order. But then, as the ground was still getting closer he changed his mind. He might be travelling to the hospital that night but there would be no treatment. No rushing blue lights. No resuscitation.

  The ground was now very close indeed. He could see the flecks of gravel.

  Shit, how close was he?

  He opened his mouth to scream.

  2

  Earlier

  Seth’s Beetle was running on fumes by the time he reached his turning. Passing the petrol station earlier had been frustrating, but his wallet was as thin as a Kardashian sandwich.

  The road didn't belong to the council, so it was in a rough state of repair, not that that meant much to the people residing behind the doors of these pads. One of the more upmarket areas of Formby, these residents didn't appreciate any through traffic so it was never in their interest to keep the roads maintained. Seth swore as his battered VW beetle struck a pothole, and something screeched under the chassis.

  He found the house easily, four along the street, despite being well set back from the road and the railway line. The owners had placed the house number in elegant script on the gateposts. Morning light broke through the row of Ash trees and struck the solid wooden gat
es in a dizzying leopard pattern. Seth parked, bumping up onto the shallow pavement, switched the engine off and hauled himself from the car. His back ached after another night tossing and turning. Three times he'd got out of bed last night to check he was alone. Sleep had been filled with dreams of other places and dark corners.

  This job offer might finally mean a way out of the shitty caravan and back into a regular home like other normal boring people. And a full-sized bed. Let's not forget the ideal of having a bed that didn't creak every time you farted in the night.

  He thumbed the intercom and was hurried through the gates by a woman with a deep Eastern European accent.

  Beyond the gates, he got to see the rich splendour of the home he'd been invited to. Not quite a mansion, but the building was imposing and sprawled. Maybe the owners called each of the blocks to the left and right of the entrance, wings, maybe they didn't. But it was enough to make Seth uncomfortable and for the first time that week, he feared how dirty his black jeans were, and whether he should have moved his weekly shave forward a couple of days.

  The woman who answered the door had the same Slavic accent as the one on the intercom. Tall with an angular face, her smile lacked any enthusiasm and the abrupt gesture to enter was perfunctory, not welcoming. There were five doors that Seth could see from the front entrance, but they were all closed. The entrance hall was floored with a dark wooden hardwood that had been deeply polished. An elaborate staircase curled up to the first floor and at the top, a dog, possibly a boxer, appraised this newcomer with a slow lifting of its head and a warning moan. Purple flowers on a side table were fresh and rich with pollen. Seth scratched the underside of his nose and waited for the woman to close the door. She frowned as she signalled for Seth to follow her deeper into the house. He had presumed she was a housekeeper, but then he saw the grand family portrait above the fireplace and there she was, right alongside a man at least twice her age, his arm tight around her shoulders as they stared into each other's eyes in an unashamedly charming display of love.

  “This way. He's not left his study today, so he's probably in a rotten mood. I suggest you watch your step with him.” The woman paused at the beginning of a short passage that ended at a substantial looking grey door. A real door, not an Almost Door. Seth fought his instinct to reach into his pocket and make a note.

  “Can I get you a drink? He’ll offer you a scotch but it's too early for him to be drinking. Refuse and he’ll abstain.”

  “A coffee would be great.”

  And she stopped, sighed, and headed back the way they'd come. Taking her up on the offer hadn't been the right answer.

  “Knock and wait,” she said, walking away. “He rarely stands on ceremony, but first impressions count for a lot with him.” Then with a pivot that lacked any grace or lightness, she locked eyes with Seth for a second. “Oh, and if you owe him money, he keeps his handgun in the top drawer of his desk. Expect to see it.”

  She was joking, right? No one kept guns in desks. Not in Formby.

  For a moment he considered backing out. Sure, the potential of steady income was seductive but did he want to be working with people like this?

  The decision wasn't difficult. He couldn't live off principals and ideals. Money talks.

  As he walked to the end of the corridor, his attention was drawn through the floor to ceiling windows and the cobbled courtyard outside edged with blooming planters and leading to a larger garden beyond. The woman, the wife, leant against the jamb of an open door, pulling from a crumpled packet, a dark brown cigarette.

  She tipped her head as she noticed him looking and he realised there was zero chance of that coffee appearing. An awkward smile carved her face, apathetic, or belligerent—Seth couldn't decide. Was she waiting for him to knock on the door? Curious as to what would happen?

  Seth knocked.

  A pause that gave Seth a moment to appreciate how fast his heart was beating and how hard it was to breathe in here.

  He tugged at his collar.

  He raised his fist to knock again and…

  The door opened.

  A hand was extended. Its owner, a man in his sixties. Solid was an appropriate description. And the grip was tight.

  “Roy Oswald,” the man said with all the suavity you'd expect from a man who keeps a gun in his top drawer. In that voice, there was the hint of a Liverpool accent.

  “Thanks for inviting me. This is a big place,” Seth said. Roy, still smiling, went to stand by an ornate wooden drinks cabinet and opened a flap. Inside, two bottles of amber—scotch presumably. Why two bottles? One for the visitors, keeping the best stuff for himself?

  “Drink?”

  Seth thought back to what Mrs Oswald had told him. “I’d better not. Got the car outside.”

  The front of the drinks cabinet was closed unceremoniously, clinking against the glasses. Roy gestured that Seth should take a seat.

  The office was contemporary with the money spent on all the right things. IKEA hadn’t made a mark on this space. Dark mahogany bookcases dominated the walls, reaching to the ceiling. These were filled with weighty tomes, many with decaying bindings. He tried to read the titles, but with the sombre light of the office compounded with the faded lettering, he failed to pick out more than a few random words.

  “Did you come far?”

  “No. I live on the other side of Southport.”

  “Traffic good?”

  “Yeah.”

  Roy wandered to his side of the desk, again, a solid piece of furniture. Dark wood with prominent carved legs, intricate and with faces and tiny flying creatures, dragons perhaps. Roy folded his hands in front of him and gazed across the desk at his visitor. Seth had a momentary impulse to back out of the room. Roy smiled, and he leant back in his chair.

  “I understand you’ve a job for me,” Seth started, “I usually charge £100 an hour for a reading, but if it's a group booking, it’s an additional £20 for every half hour over that. Are you looking to have me do the readings here or is there someplace else you had in mind?”

  A dozen lines creased Roy’s forehead.

  “I didn’t ask you here to set up a reading. I'm not interested in your ability to tell my fortune.”

  Seth didn't want to rush in and correct him. In eight years, it was a rarity that someone made the mistake of asking for their fortune to be told. Those lies he saved for the gipsies on the pier.

  “So why…”

  “I work in security.”

  “I know little about security.”

  A hand reared, like a school teacher’s silencing him. “I've been in the field for forty years. I haven't asked you here for any business advice.” A bland smile flitted on Roy's face. “Are you sure you won’t have that drink?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Roy didn't disguise his disappointment. He cleared his throat. “We have several high-profile clients, principally in the north-west but we’re gradually reaching out, biting into the competition. You've got to be ruthless to survive.”

  He wavered, then eyed up the drinks cabinet. His eyes flicked from the cabinet to Seth and then back again. Suddenly, he stood. “Sod it,” he muttered and poured himself a tall glass from one of the bottles. “If Adriana asks, you’re to deny it.” He didn't seem to be joking, but now with a glass in his hand, he seemed more relaxed. He sipped his drink then came and sat on the corner of the desk, his knees almost brushing against Seth’s. Seth wondered how discretely he could shift his position to establish a little more distance between the pair of them.

  “I'm sorry Mr Oswald—”

  “Roy.”

  “—Roy, but I'm not altogether clear why you've asked me to come here. You're aware of how I make a living?”

  Roy let out a slight laugh, almost a cough. “Your website makes it eminently clear.”

  “So, why do you need me?”

  “I don't. It's my son.”

  “Your son?”

  “He’s hardworking but dim and full
of whimsical ideas. He's a fine young man, but he’s not quite the son I imagined would succeed me in this business. Not that I'm planning on retiring anytime soon.” Another sip from the glass. A glint in the eye. “He works for me, checking up on the rest of the organisation. Inspecting sites, ensuring that we keep to our high standards. And he's not half bad at it.”

  I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear such glowing endorsements from his father, Seth thought, grateful that he didn't have to hear what his own father thought of his chosen profession.

  “Johnny’s taken a liking for one site in particular. Do you know Ravenmeols Hospital?” Roy's eyes locked with Seth's and in that frightful moment, time stretched to breaking point. A shiver ran across the back of Seth’s neck and he realised that he’d not taken a breath for a few seconds and that noise in his chest was the sound of his heart and that pressure across his temple was…

  “I’ll take that drink now,” Seth said as soon as he found his voice again.

  Roy was already on his feet, the smile on his face sincere. A kindred spirit.

  Seth didn't notice whether the drink had been poured from the same bottle as Roy’s, but he found that he didn't care and let the amber liquid burn his throat.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Would a lie slip by unnoticed?

  “I used to live close by.”

  “Really? Fantastic. It's an impressive building.”

  “I moved away as a teenager. It closed down soon after.”

  “It's got something of a reputation now, though.”

  “Has it?” Seth asked innocently.

  “You know of the disturbances, the trouble that the hospital went through shortly before closing its doors for good?”

  “No.”

  Roy tipped his head, hmm’d and took a long sip from his glass. “You're a difficult man to read, Mr Loomis.”

  “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  “You make a living from the paranormal.”

  “I make a living by channelling the voices of the dead so their loved ones can connect with them. It's a far cry from ghosts.”

  “Not that far I think.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Seth felt the man’s gaze intensify, and he shifted in his seat, eager for this meeting to be over with but not prepared to throw away the prospect of earning decent money. Why can't he get to the bloody point?