by Sam Hurcom
I thought then of the two men, the Davey brothers who I had seen the day before in the woodlands close to the scene.
‘Would any of the farm hands testify to that? That she was a harlot, I mean?’
Cummings only shrugged. ‘It’s no great secret amongst the village. Remember how I told you yesterday that some were not surprised.’
‘Whether she sold herself or not, it lends no credence to the belief that she ought to die.’
‘Of course not, but you must admit, Inspector, it greatly enhanced the risk that a terrible thing would happen to her. Here’s our turning.’
Just then he pulled the reins so that we almost came to a complete stop. He yanked left and the nag took us down an ill-formed track that skirted off the main road. Our line of sight was obscured on either side of the track by thick-bushed trees that rose high from tall, steep banks of dirt. The heavy foliage arched overhead.
The air seemed to grow even warmer as we headed further down the track and a dank smell rose around and followed us. The trail snaked through the land, enclosed and sheltered from view. Our pace was still slow, and each turn seemed to find another and another, so that soon it felt as if the road would never end. Birds and other animals rustled and called in the greenery that surrounded us, though quickly such noises became unnatural and strange to me.
My state of paranoia deepened both suddenly and terribly, spurred on by my fever and raging suspicions.
I seem to recall growing certain that our journey was but a dreadful ruse and that, isolated in this space, incapable of any escape, I was to be met with a miserable end, a gang or more waiting for us with clubs and sticks and shovels ready to bury me somewhere in the outlying fields. Figures stood and moved about us in the heavy undergrowth, before vanishing in an instant. Bright eyes, wide and bulbous, white, bloodshot and filled with malice and hideous intent glared at me before blinking into darkness. Voices chattered, in hushed and bitter tones. I did not speak, nor think much upon the girl or anything other than the beasts and men lurking and watching in the shadows behind the trees.
Something glistened deep in the gloom, far up on the bank. A knife. More than one. Teeth jagged and sharp!
A few spots of water dripped down from overhanging foliage. When I looked at my hands, they were red with glossy maroon blood.
The horse vanished, Cummings too. I moved alone on the wooden cart as something nimble, chattering – laughing! – began to consume each precious gemstone of daylight, piece by piece. I didn’t try to cry out or flee, mesmerised as much as terrified by the spectacle. Dread spoke plainly of all the terrible things to come, whilst reminding me of every ill thought I had ever had. The claws of branches reached out towards me with ever closer swipes and lunges, grabbing at my hair, my neck.
The eyes still watched, though now they were the eyes of serpents: yellow, green, sliced by a thin dagger-blade pupil that focused on my beating heart and throbbing jugular.
The voices began to mutter in unison, their words unclear but their intent quite obvious. They were taunting me, chanting. Their words grew steadily louder. Louder. Louder still.
The path faded completely.
I was submerged in the darkness of a deep pit.
Their voices grew louder. Louder.
My body shook. My eyes darted all about me.
The last splinter of light flickered from existence.
Louder. They spoke ever louder.
A compulsion took hold of me – to reach in my case and fetch my Enfield. I had enough bullets to ward off any attack.
Cummings roused me, his words at first like echoes from a far-off place.
‘Inspector. Inspector!’
He shoved my side and with a start I came to, catching my breath as if I had been holding it. I hacked and wheezed for a moment or two, reeling and scanning the tree line.
I must have muttered some nonsense before regaining my senses. I took a few deep breaths before apologising to Cummings, who looked at me with real concern.
‘You are unwell, man,’ I heard him say.
To that I nodded. He was right.
6
All Saints Church – June 18th, 1904
I rubbed my face, felt the heat and sweat on my skin and the throbbing veins in my temples. I looked around; the unbroken blue sky had gone, now shrouded in bright white cloud that weighed upon the air and made it dense and cloggy.
We stood amidst a handful of tiny cottages, all of which had thatched roofs and poorly constructed exteriors. They were rustic, on the verge of collapse, older even than those that surrounded the Twyn at Dinas Powys. Beyond were the farmlands, and Cummings informed me that further north, carrying along the track we had arrived on, was the Old Court Farm and Manor that presided over much of the land.
We pulled up alongside the man Joseph, who was waiting on the road with his cart still fully loaded.
‘You took an age,’ he cackled as we stepped off and began moving the goods back to his cart. ‘Were you lost?’
Neither I nor Cummings answered. When the task was done, Joseph hopped upon his wagon and set off without a word of thanks.
I fetched my case and headed into the grounds of All Saints church. It was a small space, littered with a few crumbling gravestones and memorials. The church itself was of a simple construction, furnished with only a few discreet glass windows and a stout bell tower.
The place was deathly quiet, devoid of bird calls or even light breaths of wind. I stopped in the graveyard and looked behind me, towards the cottages and the wheat fields. It seemed nothing was moving except for Cummings tending to the haycart and his horse.
I heard a voice call my name and turned to see Constable Vaughn emerging from the church, alongside a priest of some standing. Cleric Richmond was tall and well built, with stocky forearms and such deep lines across his face they appeared like cracks in bone-dry masonry. His eyes were heavily deep set, shrouded, in a fixed expression of scolding. His robes seemed dreadfully unbefitting, far too short in the legs and arms.
Both he and Vaughn remained in the arched entrance to the little church. Vaughn greeted me as I approached, and I cleared my throat to introduce myself to Richmond.
‘Bexley,’ I rasped.
He offered his hand with no word of welcome.
‘I hope this has not been too distressing for you and your congregation, Reverend,’ I said in a cordial manner. He only shook his head a little. Vaughn handed me a thin dossier – the report he had completed on the case. I tucked it under my arm as the cleric gestured for us to step inside.
The nave of the church was draped in shadow. What little light crept in through the small and grimy windows was augmented only by a range of beeswax candles spread along the aisles and as far back as the altar. Like its exterior, the church interior was simple and unadorned. Thick cobwebs seemed to hang everywhere, and heavy plumes of dust drifted with each of our steady footfalls. Though it should have been cool, the place was stifling, the air too thick to breathe.
Richmond led us down the aisles. The heady smells of moth-eaten prayer cushions along with the stale air only seemed to worsen my state. The camera case in my hand felt heavy as I looked toward the altar and at the twisted, ill-formed wood carving of Christ upon the cross. As we passed the altar, I saw the dust lie thick upon a copy of the King James Bible.
By all appearances, it seemed the church had been abandoned. I knew then that Cummings had not been telling me the whole truth of this place.
Richmond led us through a narrow doorway beside the altar. The light inside his vestibule was even poorer than in the nave. The room was not small, but was so badly cluttered with bookshelves, stacks of plain wooden prayer stools and an oversized writing desk, that it was barely large enough for us. The few lit candles cast a fiery glow upon our faces. Richmond looked devilish in such light.
He pointed toward the corner of the room, and beside a rusty wood stove, a hatch was opened in the floor, revealing a few stone stairs descending into darkness. The hatch was barely wide enough to fit a grown man.
‘How on earth did you get the body down there?’ I exclaimed, taking a few steps toward the hatch.
‘With g-great difficulty, I’m afraid,’ Vaughn replied. ‘It was the best place for her.’
‘I’m not sure any of this has been in the girl’s best interest,’ I replied.
I dropped my case and knelt beside the hatch. The air around it felt colder, though the reek of the girl’s rotting corpse hit me full in the face. I admit I recoiled, caught between such a foul smell and the dry, dusty air of the vestibule. Coughing badly, I managed to stand, though my footing was unsteady. The fever was afflicting me ever more and I asked Richmond for some water. He cast me an irreverent stare and muttered that he would need to fetch some.
‘We shall need all the light you have as well,’ I groaned, rubbing my brow. ‘I require the exposure for the camera. Fetch all the candles you can find.’
‘I’ll fetch them,’ Vaughn chirped before leaving the vestibule. Richmond continued to stare at me whilst I glanced around the room.
‘I understand this may make you uncomfortable, Reverend,’ I said, meeting his gaze for a moment. ‘But as soon as this is done the body can be buried properly.’ I paused then, thinking how best to say: ‘It seems the church has not been used for some time.’
Richmond nodded his head slowly. ‘You’re quite correct.’
‘Mr Cummings—’
‘Would be best to speak to on the matter.’ Whether it was merely the flickering of candlelight across his face or his true displeasure, he seemed to grimace for a brief moment, before leaving the vestibule without another word.
I shook my head in contempt – Cummings had surely been lying to me.
I began making ready, setting my case down upon the writing desk. I removed the camera mount before checking over the plates I had brought. Before Vaughn or Richmond returned, I reached for my Enfield and tucked it in my trouser waistband. Its weight, and the butt of the revolver against my back, were nothing but reassuring.
I walked around the room and took hold of a bronze candelabra with three short candles. Vaughn returned a few moments later, bringing with him a grubby jug of lukewarm water – in which I promptly soaked my handkerchief – and a few short candles.
‘Reverend has g-g-gone to fetch more candles,’ he whispered, glancing over his shoulder.
‘He is a quiet man,’ I replied, striking a match.
‘He is upset by all this.’
I nodded. ‘And Mr Cummings?’
‘Outside, sir. Shall I fetch him?’
‘No, we have more pressing matters at hand. Fetch your handkerchief and soak it here,’ I said, pointing to the jug of water. ‘You will need it for the smell.’
Vaughn turned rigid.
‘You want m-m-m-me down there with you?’ His eyes darted from me to the little hatch in the corner.
‘I’ll need your help,’ I muttered sternly. ‘You can ensure the candlelight is best for exposure.’ I was shaking quite frantically and took a moment to be still, for a wave of nausea and scorching pain spread from the tip of my brow to the muscles around my eyes. I rubbed my face again and dabbed my wet handkerchief around my temples.
‘Our duty is to carry out these unpleasant tasks, Constable.’ I sighed and took the now lit candelabra and handkerchief in each hand. ‘I shall lead us down and you merely need fetch the lights and bring my equipment behind me.’
I said no more, for I could see Vaughn was shaken by the thought alone of heading into the church cellar. As I stepped over to the hatch, I rallied him with a stern word and he moved quickly behind me. With the briefest pause, my grip tightening on the candelabra, I stepped through the hatch into the darkness.
7
Stepping into Nightmares –
June 18th, 1904
As I immersed myself into the cellar proper, the bitter cold consumed me. My candles flickered a little and I held them out feebly to the darkness at my left, where the cellar spread away from me. I saw nothing for the darkness was as solid as the damp stone wall to my right. I set my back to it and slowly began to descend the shallow steps.
I took deep and steady breaths to calm my nerves. The wretched, festering smell of the body burnt through my handkerchief. It was an effort not to gag, for the air-tight cellar had compounded the stench beyond anything I had ever experienced. With each breath, I thought myself inhaling the girl’s tortured spirit.
I slowly left the dim sphere of light cast from the room above. Soon, I was engulfed in true darkness, that which has a presence to it, a weight. Such darkness imposes itself upon you so that you do not move or walk in quite your usual manner. It consumes rational thought, sense and logic whilst feeding the heart panic and sheer dread. Each step downward I took was a miserable one, for each tested my courage and reserve, already beaten and bruised by the fever and the strange sights it had brought on.
All manner of wicked thoughts began swirling through my mind as I approached the final few steps. My back slid against something spongy on the wall, cold moisture seeping through my shirt. I lurched forwards and lost my footing, collapsing off the steps and stumbling downward, blessedly only a foot or so below to the solid floor.
‘Are you all right, Inspector?’
I turned and saw Vaughn’s shrouded frame looking down from the vestibule above.
‘Get down here, man!’ I tried to be forceful but tremored as I spoke. I heard Vaughn’s reservations but kept my gaze upon him as he stepped through the hatch and made his way down.
I wanted to wait for him, to have someone beside me as I moved forwards. But I didn’t; I needed to shed light into the place and banish the foolish fears that, like hundreds of thin spiders’ webs, were taking hold of me.
I held the candelabra out before me. Its soft glow pierced no further than a foot or two. I thought to throw it into the pitch – a childish notion, of course. The handkerchief to my nose seemed useless, for the smell was only worsening. My steps echoed throughout the cellar and I guessed then that it stretched the length of the church above.
‘Where is the body?’ I whispered to Vaughn.
‘At the end,’ he replied, still close to the hatch.
I moved on, unable even to see the edge of the walls to my left or right. My only reference was Vaughn and his single candle flame. He held it close to his face, so that when I turned (for I seemed to turn back every other short step) I saw his petrified eyes glistening faintly.
‘For God’s sake, get down here,’ I growled to him, his little candle bouncing as he took another hesitant step.
I noted a soft trickling of water, likely through a breach in the cellar wall. The floor was damp and uneven in patches, but in the flicker of my light I began to see small pools and puddles dotted across my path.
A moth crawled along the hand holding my handkerchief – I batted it away, catching only the faintest glimpse of its speckled brown wings, before they vanished into the black. To my right, in the direction it flew, I glimpsed the faint outline of furniture propped against the wall. Stepping over, I saw some crates, filled with emptied wine bottles, and a few chairs, their felted seats moulded and dank. Here, water dripped lazily from the ceiling above.
Vaughn began dry heaving, still perched only midway down the stairs. He dropped his candle. It tinkered down the steps and came to rest on the cellar floor. He would have vanished completely, if not for the faintest light coming from the open hatch that struck the curve of his back as he remained doubled over.
I moved a few steps towards him.
‘Are you all right, Constable? I’d advise you to continue coming down; the smell only worsens, and if you leave now you may not have the
stomach to come ba—’
A knock, a faint dull thud, came from the darkest end of the cellar. It was enough to stop me where I stood. I listened intently but heard nothing more than the drip, drip of water and Vaughn’s heavy breathing.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector—’
‘Come down now, Constable,’ I said firmly. My eyes were fixed on the gloom from where the knocking sound had come. I began moving slowly back into the darkness towards the far end of the cellar, with tentative steps over the wet and slimy floor, my arm stretched outright. Hot blood, laced with fever, charged and throbbed through my beating heart and body – what effort it took to bring one leg in front of the other!
Something crawled across my neck.
I brushed at it, but to no avail. I thought for a moment it was only my raging imagination, but the itching crawl was too persistent, too regular to be a phantasm. It sped down beneath my shirt before I had chance to brush it away. What legs it had clawed into my flesh, prickling as it moved. I tried at first to hold my nerve, reaching around my back with the hand clasping my handkerchief. But when I felt its girth, a body of some sort, half the size of a golf ball, I began to panic and swirl.
It was trying to burrow into my flesh just below my left shoulder blade. I shrieked, dropping the candelabra to the floor with a piercing clatter that extinguished two of the little flames. I think Vaughn was shouting to me from behind though I cannot be certain. By then I was tearing my shirt away (I pulled at least three of the buttons clean off), pawing blindly at the wicked thing. It lurked upon my back just beyond my reach, so that I convulsed and spun like a madman, shaking myself to loosen its hold.
It gave off a dreadful natter, like iron files scratching against one another.
Finally, I managed to stretch in the right manner, clawing at the terror with the handkerchief in hand, squeezing it a little as I did. Whatever it was, for even now I still cannot imagine, it had a tough outer skin and very soft insides. I pinched it in my hand and flung it off me. When I searched upon the floor, I saw only the smallest glimpse of movement, scurrying into the gloom out of sight of the candlelight.