The Villagers

by Gwyn G B

  What Charlie did find, he would never have guessed. He thought he’d caught the glimpse of some shadowy figures at the edge of the forest, but had dismissed it as night time illusions. In the courtyard of the house his headlights found a frightened looking Sophie standing shock still, the little waif like friend of hers, whose name he couldn’t remember, by her side. Charlie stopped the car and got out leaving the headlights on.

  ‘Sophie, what are you doing? Are you alright?’

  The child certainly didn’t look it, and much as they’d had their differences in the past, his paternal instincts shot to the fore. The little girl didn’t respond, she stared straight back at him, her face lifeless and pale, her eyes not moving. Then his nose became aware of the smell of smoke.

  ‘Well, well,’ a voice came from the bushes to the side of him. ‘If it isn’t Charles Simpson,’ he spun round to face the source of the voice which he recognised as Martha Hurrell’s, but his eyes were met by a figure dressed in a hooded black robe. ‘You don’t know when to quit do you?’ she sneered at him, taking her hood back off her face a little so there could be no mistaking who it was.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s Alison?’ Charlie asked, the hairs rising on the back of his neck and every muscle in his body twitching in expectation.

  ‘Never you mind. For a moment there I thought you were going to ruin my little plan, but do you know what? You’re actually going to help it. The pièce de résistance.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Where’s Alison?’

  ‘We’re having a little ceremony tonight, the culmination of a year’s hard work,’ she turned and waved somebody forward from the shadows. ‘Your son is the star guest.’

  ‘My son!’ Charlie stepped towards her, ready to strangle her if necessary, but another robed figure came into the light carrying a pink bundle.

  Martha held up her hand for him to stop.

  ‘No closer. Or he dies now,’

  Charlie stopped in his tracks, straining to see the tiny baby.

  ‘You see, they were going to find three bodies: Alison’s, Sophie’s and your son. I’ve got all the evidence, your letters, she’d been bereaved, never properly recovered, then she falls pregnant by a man who betrays her. To add insult to injury, this man then insists on being a part of the baby’s life. Too much for most people to cope with, don’t you think? Post natal depression is such a terrible illness. And now your visit can provide the catalyst. She attacks you, the children and then takes her own life. Everything to be destroyed by the fire which you can now see nicely taking hold in the sitting room. That I believe now adds up to four corpses.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Why are you doing this?’ Charlie was incredulous, it just couldn’t be happening.

  ‘We’re doing it for our Lord Satan. Prepare to meet him.’

  Before Charlie had a chance to defend himself, two figures appeared behind him, both with knives raised. They plunged them into his back.

  ‘No. Alison. Oh God.’ Charlie cried out as he stumbled forward.

  ‘Not as pleasurable as my little treat I arranged for you with Sally Davidson is it?’

  Martha laughed. He lurched towards her, the two executioners darting to stand between them, raising their knives ready to attack again. Charlie was fit, although his body now poured blood, fear and determination to help Alison and his son, gave him strength.

  He turned quickly and stumbled through the front door and into the house. The hallway was already filling with smoke, but if he could find Alison then maybe they could both help their son.

  ‘Leave him,’ Martha said to the others. ‘Lock him inside the house and disable the car. He won’t get far with those wounds. We don’t have time to waste on him.’

  ‘But leader…’ one of the hooded ones meekly started to ask.

  ’Don’t you dare question me, or I will ask our Lord to cut out your tongue.’

  He went quiet and stepped back.

  ‘Now, where were we…’ she said turning to the figure behind her and holding out her arms for the baby.

  Sophie had sat in the little bathroom opposite the wild-eyed Michaela for what seemed like an eternity. She’d dared not move an inch and so her legs had eventually cramped beneath her, the pain at least providing some sort of alternative focus to Michaela. When at last she heard Martha’s voice in the hallway, she felt the relief flood over her. Finally help would come, her dear friend and protector would save her. In fact, when the door did finally burst open it was an unusually dressed Martha who stood in the doorway. Cloaked in a black robe she looked from Sophie to Michaela.

  ‘She been quiet?’ she said to the latter, nodding in Sophie’s direction.

  ‘No problems. She’s too scared to even move,’ sneered Michaela back.

  ‘Good, well we’re almost ready. Out you come, the others are gathering in the driveway.’ Michaela jumped up to attention as Martha turned away.

  ‘Right you, move,’ Michaela menaced at Sophie, waving her knife in her face and pulling at one of her arms to make her stand. She wanted Martha to see her being bossy before she left. Sophie tried but her legs really had gone to sleep beneath her and as she attempted to leave the bathroom, her left leg gave way sending her sprawling on the floor.

  ‘Can’t even walk now, huh!’ gloated Michaela, kicking at her, ‘Get up.’

  Sophie tried again, the feeling coming back into her legs just as Michaela’s father came out of the sitting room. Neither he nor Michaela said a word to each other, he went into the kitchen, staring at Sophie as he went, then returned moments later in a dark robe like Martha’s and holding three large candles. He sneered again at Sophie, she cowered, pressing herself against the hallway wall, praying that it would open up and get her away from these horrible people. Robert West walked up the stairs. Michaela angrily noted that Sophie was noticeably more scared of her father than of her. That wasn’t right, she was the one who would rule the clan, she was the one Sophie should be most scared of. She knew what was in the sitting room, she could smell it and so she decided to teach Sophie a lesson of respect.

  ‘Do you want to know what’s going to happen to you?’ You’re going to end up burning in the fires of hell,’ she screamed at the terrified little girl, half pushing and half prodding her with her knife until she’d got her into the sitting room. Then she slammed the door shut.

  The room was already filled with smoke and the flames were building up heat. Having to face Michaela was terrifying, but coherent thoughts were gone as the fear of the fire won. She started beating her fists hysterically on the door, begging to be let out.

  Michaela opened it after sufficient screams and pleading and allowed the sobbing wreck of her ex schoolmate to fall into the hallway. She noted with extra glee that she’d peed her pants.

  40

  Tom watched Eastenders and some new but extremely boring sitcom, before deciding that if he was going to go and check on Alison Swift as he’d promised his mum, then he’d better go now. Some Clint Eastwood movie was on in half an hour and to be honest he was beginning to regret having said he’d do it, but a promise was a promise, and besides if something really was going on, he’d never forgive himself for not having done something about it. So he put on his Timberlands and donned a sweater for the chilly air. In the garden he paused a while to admire his reconditioned motorbike, caressing its chassis and stroking the handlebars. He’d spent days on this, weeks even, but he reckoned it would really go down well with the girls at Uni. He had dreams of revving up outside lectures and taking some long-haired blond back to her digs, parentless digs of course. For a moment he contemplated doing a Steve McQueen from the Great Escape and riding out over the fields to the Swift house, but as stealth was the name of the game, if he was to avoid Robert West, he covered his bike back over with the tarpaulin and headed for the fields on foot. He’d figured that if West was still watching the house then the safest approach would be to circle round and approach from the other side. That route would take h
im over the fields and then through a shallow fringe of trees which branched out from the main bulk of the forest.

  As he slunk across the fields in the darkness, he found himself quite enjoying the adventure. He felt like some SAS soldier going in to rescue a lady in distress. Of course, he realised that on his arrival the chances were he was going to be very disappointed, all would be as it should be and he’d have to simply turn round and return home.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell of smoke which reached his nostrils just before he got to the fringe of trees. His pace quickened with his heart and he arrived at the side of the courtyard on full alert. There was nobody to be seen. A car sat in the middle, the driver’s door open and its tyres slashed. The front door of the house was also ajar and inside he saw red flames licking at the downstairs windows, smoke curling out the front door into the night. He didn’t know what to do, should he run straight back to the village and raise the alarm, or see if there was anybody trapped inside. Alison Swift was heavily pregnant, she wouldn’t be very mobile and her daughter was probably too young to be any use. Tom decided, therefore, on the latter course of action.

  He went in via the front door. The fire so far was only in the sitting room and hadn’t reached the hallway. The door at the back which he presumed led to the kitchen was shut. Tom had seen the fire safety videos at school and he knew that if there was a fire behind that door and he opened it, it would blow up in his face with the rush of air. By now, he figured that there was nobody around except people who needed saving and so he called out.

  ‘Mrs Swift, hello. Anybody here. Alison, Mrs Swift…’ The smoke swirled around him and he started to cough. He needed to go upstairs, but what if he got trapped?

  All of a sudden, two figures stumbled towards him from the smoke-filled staircase. The larger figure was bent over, almost swaying, while the other tried to support him.

  ‘Help, help me please.’

  Tom recognised the voice of Alison Swift and launched himself up the stairs to help.

  Alison had heard the whole Charlie episode from her prison. When the car had drawn up, she had no idea who it was, she certainly would never have thought of Charlie, she just hoped for help. She heard his voice asking Sophie if she was alright, that must mean she was still down there and still OK, but she still didn’t fully realise who it was until she heard Martha.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Charles Simpson,’ Alison almost stopped breathing for the next two minutes as she listened to their conversation. She wanted to rush out and help him, warn him that there were others besides Martha. Then she heard him cry out.

  ‘No Alison, oh God,’ and she could hear a scuffle, him scrambling on the gravel courtyard and then Martha talking about Sally Davidson. Alison went cold all over. It slowly dawned on her that his fall from grace had all been fixed by Martha.

  ‘Charlie, what have I done,’ she whispered collapsing back onto the bed, wrenching at the ropes again.

  The smell of smoke and the distant crackle of flames gave her a renewed sense of urgency, but all she could think about was her children.

  She was tugging at the ropes and trying to reach the ones which bound her wrists with her teeth when she heard heavy footsteps stumble from the stairs to her doorway. Charlie almost fell into the room, his face ashen, fear written across it.

  ‘Alison,’ he gasped, struggling to breath. His lung must be punctured and moving was getting harder.

  ‘Charlie, they’ve got our baby,’ she shouted.

  He dragged himself to the bed, fumbling in his coat pocket and pulling out a red Swiss Army knife.

  Her wrists were bloodied from where she’d been trying to free herself, but he knew that wasn’t important right now.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to him.

  He didn’t reply, it wasn’t important now, what mattered was getting out of there and saving the children.

  ‘Mrs Swift, hello anybody here…’ a voice shouted up from downstairs. Alison couldn’t believe it, her heart leapt and she scrambled free of the ropes.

  She rushed to the door and was almost through it when she realised Charlie wasn’t with her.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to him, but she could see he was struggling to breathe. She went back to him and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m not going without you,’ she said.

  For a brief moment their eyes connected, the way they had used to look at each other, and then the smell of smoked the urgency of the situation took over.

  They stumbled down the stairs and Alison saw a figure at the bottom, it wasn’t until he ran up to help her, taking two steps at a time, that he recognised him as Tom, Mary Leggett’s son.

  ‘Tom,’ she exclaimed, ‘have they gone, we must be careful.’

  ‘Who?’ he asked, ‘What’s going on. Is it West?’ He looked at Alison’s wrists, cut and bloodied and could see that Charlie was severely injured, the blood had been pouring out of his back all down his coat.

  ‘It’s Martha Hurrell, they’ve taken Sophie and my baby. We’ve got to hurry. I’ve got to save my children,’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Tom replied still not sure what was going on, but certain it was serious.

  ‘No, you must get help. Please run to the village, call the police and Charlie needs an ambulance. I have to go, they’re going to kill the children too.’

  Tom in normal circumstances, would have looked at this woman who stood before him in a fluffy white dressing gown, flaying her arms about and talking incessantly of ‘they’ and murder, and he would have decided she was stark raving mad. But not now, not under these circumstances, instinct told him otherwise and after they’d sat Charlie down in the courtyard, well away from the fire, he was gone running into the village to summon help.

  For Alison, the soreness of her stomach and body was forgotten as she ran from the house. The smoke was billowing out of several windows now and she could hear glass shattering and materials popping in the heat, but she didn’t care about their belongings. There was only one thought on her mind and that was to save her children.

  She had no real idea where they’d all gone, but the memories of the creepy clearing in the woods where she’d found little Dumbo’s remains, sent her heading into the forest. Half way into the trees she realised she’d come unarmed. Why hadn’t she stopped and thought, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, anything. How did she expect to save them? She stopped and picked up a stout stick, it would have to do, she’d stab them in the eyes if necessary, whatever was needed to save her children.

  As she neared the clearing she heard the chanting and saw flickering flames through the trees. Creeping as quietly as she could she edged closer. There were about ten men, all kneeling naked before an alter. To the side stood Michaela and Sophie, her daughter appeared to be in a state of shock, for she simply stared ahead her with a glazed expression. Alison could see no sign of Martha, but on the altar lay her son, barely moving. She looked back at the kneeling men, she couldn’t believe it, Neil Best was there, as too was Harding and was that? Yes, Clive Fordham, her old accountant. He’d been the one who’d come across the house over a year ago and led Alison to it after Phil’s death. The whole thing was almost too overwhelming. She felt a little faint anyway after the birth but trying to come to terms with what was going on was almost too much.

  What should she do now though? She was a mother desperate to save her children, she didn’t care about her own safety and so she decided to run, grab her son from the altar and Sophie and then try to keep the evil group away for as long as possible until Tom could arrive with the police.

  So she did, she burst into the clearing causing the chanting to stop abruptly. She grabbed her son and made a grab for Sophie, but Michaela was too fast she pushed her daughter onto the ground out of her reach and then launched herself on Alison like a crazed wild animal.

  ‘Bitch,’ she screamed, sinking her teeth into Alison’s arm and trying to wrench her baby from her. Alison struck back, kicking
her and pulling her hair to try and release her bite on her arm. She dropped the stick in the panic and before she could even grab it, several of the men were upon her. She screamed as they wrestled to take away her son, lashing out at them all, kicking, biting, scratching everything - but it was no good. Three of them pinned her to the ground and Michaela carried the baby back to the altar. All Alison could do was watch.

  ‘I call upon our Lord Satan to appear before us to accept our sacrifice,’ said Michaela kneeling before the altar as the chanting resumed around her.

  Alison was still prostrate on the ground, only able to move her head to watch proceedings, she screamed out, ’No,’ aware that at any moment something terrible could happen. It did. The most terrible thing imaginable. All of a sudden, before them stood Satan. Smoke rose up around him, his eyes glowing red in the darkness. Alison felt her captors shrink back in fear and the chanting stopped.

  His skin was red as blood, the horns on his head shining in the flickering candles and his huge clawed hands reached out towards Alison’s son.

  ‘No, stop no,’ there could be no greater level of fear and desperation for her now. Right before her eyes, the devil was about to take her son, she did the only thing she could think of in the circumstances, she began to recite the Lord’s prayer.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,

  Hallowed be thy name.’

  Satan laughed at her, holding her son skywards and mocking her attempt to call on God, but she continued.

  ‘Thy Kingdom come

  Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.’

  Around her the clan members began an eerie wail in readiness for Satan sacrificing the baby.

  Alison struggled harder, desperately trying to reach her son.

  ‘Give us this day our daily bread

  And forgive us our trespasses.’

  The trees began to rustle and a low hum seemed to build up all around them - the Satanic hordes whispering his name.