Page 22 of Unalive On Air

The honeymoon suite’s mattress is sumptuously soft, and the sheets crisp and fresh. And any second now I’m going to hop off the bed and change into my PJs. Any . . . second . . . now . . .

Helga mentioned that Franny Driscoll, a.k.a. suspect number two, starts her shift at six in the morning, so my alarm’s set for five. My plan is to wake up refreshed and chipper, cleanse my filthy body, have a quick chat with the housekeeper, and then grab some breakfast when the dining hall opens at seven.

If I can confidently place her at the scene when Imogen disappeared, she’ll bump right up to my number one suspect spot.

Right, I’m going to change into my pyjamas. I’m gonna do it.

Any time now would be good . . .

Get up, Gary, you lazy sack of biscuits. Get changed.

“Gaaarry.” The voice is a whisper, and it definitely didn’t come from me. I don’t think.

No. Wind whipping through the cracks in the building’s century‑old mortar, probably.

I open my eyes. When had I closed them? I haven’t even taken my glasses off yet.

Maybe it had been me. Maybe I talked in my sleep? I sit up. The lamps are still on, my laptop still blinking its standby light at me, and I’m still alone.

Definitely wind, then.

Instead of hauling myself up and getting ready for bed like I should, I unzip my ExorSquad coveralls and slide down on top of the sheets once more, but the millisecond my head hits the pillow I hear it again.

“Gaaaarrrryy.”

Okay, now I’m awake.

I can’t quite pinpoint where the sound originated from, and I’m well versed in cases of voice reverberation. I’m also very aware that fatigue and stress can often trigger auditory hallucinations, and there’s an extremely likely possibility that’s what’s happening right now.

I’m probably the most stressed I’ve ever been. In fact, just the other day I found an entire chunk of grey hairs sprouting from my temple.

That has to be it. I’m a loser. Or I’m losing my mind.

Can’t wait to find out which.

The lamp beside me switches itself off, plunging the suite into abject darkness.

Power cut?

But the LED on my laptop continues blinking, so if it is a power cut, it’s isolated to this part of the room. I flick the lamp switch on and off, and nothing happens. Maybe an electrical surge blew the bulb. I try the other side, and for a split second, I think it worked. The room is illuminated, but a moment later, I’m pitched back into darkness. Lightning blinks a few more times, throwing lanky, disfigured shadows across the antique furniture. Yet by the time my eyes adapt to the brightness, I’m once more swimming in endless nighttime.

Something creaks nearby. A floorboard? Is someone in here with me?

“Hello?” I say. My voice comes out squeakier than I intended. “Helga?” Fuck, is it . . . “Franny?”

No answer.

A clap of thunder directly overhead rumbles through the building, shaking the bed, shaking the bedside tables, and my equipment on the dressing table. I blink hard, hold my eyes closed for a few seconds, and will them to adjust to the lack of light. My microphone falls onto its side, and a jingling noise rings through the darkness.

It sounds like someone’s carrying a tray of drinks into the room, like glasses knocking against glasses, or like wind chimes, or like . . .

Above me the humongous antique chandelier rattles, the crystal charms clunking together.

“An earthquake?” Is that what this is? Should I crouch under the desk?

I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but I’m less in control of my thoughts and actions than I realised.

What was sheet lightning fifteen minutes ago, has turned into fork. Outside the window, electric whip cracks cleave the sky in two. It’s on the horizon, out at sea, swatting fishing boats and lighthouses, until it’s not.