Dark Legion

by John Glasby

  Terence sat forward, suddenly interested. ‘What sort of things did he talk about, Sergeant . . .?’

  ‘Sergeant Willingham, sir.’ The other smiled warmly. ‘He used to badger the vicar to let him go through the old records locked away in the church vaults. Seems there were a lot of peculiar things written about five or six hundred years ago about what went on in Tormount in those days. They used to perform odd rites up there on Cranston’s Hill where the Standing Stones are. Your brother was convinced that Black Magic was carried out, that they used to worship the devil on top of the hill on certain nights of the year, make human sacrifices on some carved stone altar that used to be in the middle of the stone pillars. It isn’t there now, of course, and there’s nobody still living in the village who can remember a time when it was, but the records speak of it so I suppose he was right on that point.’

  ‘I see,’ mused Terence. He shivered inwardly as if an icy finger had been suddenly laid along his back.

  ‘I’m sure that the trouble was,’ went on the other quietly, ‘that he went a lot further than that. He seemed to think that whatever evil was brought into being in those days, still lives on in some form or other, in the village. I tried to get him to talk about this, but what he said seemed vague and he used terms I couldn’t understand. He once said that it was possible certain people in Tormount might be en rapport with those evil villagers of those days so that the vibrant force was still able to exist, independently of those who originally brought it up out of the Pit.’

  Terence started in spite of himself.

  ‘Do you know what he meant by that, sir?’ asked the other pointedly.

  ‘I think so. He obviously thought that there was some spiritual link between the people who worshipped the devil in those days, and people who are alive today.’

  ‘Doesn’t really make sense, does it?’

  ‘I wish I could be absolutely sure of that. However, the real reason I came was to see if I could have the keys to my brother’s house. I understand that it was locked up by the police before the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ The sergeant heaved his not inconsiderable bulk out of the chair and moved to the rear of the office. ‘We thought it best to do that until you arrived. Very often, after a case like this, we get sightseers around, full of morbid curiosity, ready to pick up any little things they can lay their hands on. Besides, there could be something of value among your late brother’s possessions.’

  He came back and handed the bunch of keys over. Then he pulled out a large, stiff-backed book, coughed apologetically. ‘If you could just sign for them, sir. It’s just a formality but the superintendent insists on it.’

  ‘I understand.’ Terence wrote his name in the space that the other indicated then took the keys, thanked the sergeant, and left.

  Old legends and records, sacrificial murders on top of Cranston’s Hill, a graven altar set in the centre of the stones . . . Although he now knew something of what Malcolm had been digging into these past few years, it still did not give him any concrete evidence that his brother’s death was anything but the suicide that the coroner had stated it to be.

  He turned along the short lane that eventually led him through a small wicker gate, across a wide lawn, to the charming house that stood facing the spacious grounds.

  He rang the bell and waited. The sane, everyday sound of a tractor moving along the edge of one of the nearby fields, reached his ears and occasionally a faint shout would drift down to him on the wind. The village was going about its normal duties.

  Anne opened the door, stared at him in surprise for a moment, then she smiled. ‘Terry! Come inside.’ She led the way into the front room with its vase of late chrysanthemums in the window and another of red roses on the table.

  ‘Father’s out at the moment, but he should be back soon . . .’ She broke off. Her tone was graver and when she went on: ‘This is a terrible affair, Terry. I really don’t know what to say. The day before it happened, he seemed so alive, so excited at some discovery he had made.’

  ‘Then you don’t believe it was suicide?’

  She shook her head miserably. ‘I don’t. But we can’t go against the evidence at the inquest. His fits of depression, alternating with periods of almost uncontrollable excitement. At times, he was so strange that he frightened me.’

  ‘I’ve had a talk with Sergeant Willingham. He told me something of Malcolm’s work. Surely he wasn’t so foolish as to actually believe all of this nonsense of black magic, calling up the devil on top of Cranston’s Hill and the raising of the dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid he did. He was absolutely convinced of the authenticity of those happenings. Whenever he used to talk about it, he made it all sound so real that you couldn’t help agreeing with him. Over the past few months, I’ve been assailed by such a feeling of evil, like some terrible, unseen presence. I know Malcolm was aware of it; a sense of something horrible which kept growing all the time.’

  ‘And you think it may have had something to do with his death?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I went along to the inquest. I had to give evidence, you see.’

  ‘And do you agree with the verdict that was reached?’

  ‘In the circumstances, there was no other verdict that could possibly be reached,’ she muttered defensively.

  ‘Yet you don’t believe it was the right one.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

  She nodded her head helplessly. ‘There are so many things that have happened since Malcolm started digging into those old records in the church, things which I can’t possibly begin to explain. Oh, Terry!’ She came closer to him, caught at his arm. ‘I’m scared. There have been times when I was sure I would go mad.’

  A pause, then she went on in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’ve seen things, Terry. Awful things. Oh, I haven’t dared to tell anyone else about them. No one would believe a single word of it.’

  ‘Maybe if you were to tell me it would help. Better not bottle all of this up inside you.’

  ‘It was about eight weeks ago. Malcolm had found some passage in the records that he had succeeded in translating, something which threw him into a veritable fit of excitement. He was sure that the main ceremonies which were held in the early Middle Ages took place on Cranston’s Hill on May Eve and again at Halloween. He had made up his mind to go up there on All Hallows Eve and spend the night among the Standing Stones. He asked me to go with him, mainly because he wanted to have an independent witness with him just in case anything did happen. It was a foolish thing to do, I know. But I felt certain that in his state of mind, he could imagine anything.’

  ‘So you went with him?’

  She nodded, a look of horror in her eyes as though remembering terrible events. ‘I thought I was just humouring him, going up there that night. There was a moon, but a strong wind made it extremely cold. We got to the top about half an hour before midnight and settled down near one of the Standing Stones. I don’t know if you’ve ever been up there, Terry. But at night, especially in the moonlight, there’s something eerie and strange about that place.

  ‘Malcolm had taken a small cine-camera with him and a portable tape-recorder —’

  ‘Didn’t he have more modern equipment?’ Terence questioned, surprised.

  Anne shrugged. ‘He’d bought it cheaply from the widow of a one-time cine-enthusiast. He said it was ideal for his purposes. After we had set these up, we just sat there on one of the fallen stones and waited.’ She paused, then went on a trifle shakily: ‘It must have been close on midnight when we first heard something. I can’t really describe it, some curious vibration in the air, as if voices were speaking from somewhere very far away, muffled and altered as though by some great bell tolling just at the limit of audibility. It was as if the vibration was driving its way into my body, not only through my ears, but through every pore. Malcolm had started up the tape-recorder and was on the point of moving across to the camera on its tripod when it suddenly tilted, seemed
to jump into the air as though something had deliberately struck it with a great deal of force. Something unseen but terrible descended on us. I can’t describe it. It was sheer, unadulterated evil, sudden and overwhelming.’

  ‘You didn’t get any sense of direction from which it was coming?’ Terence asked.

  ‘No. It just seemed to swamp down and swallow us up completely. Malcolm felt it too, but I think he seemed to have been expecting it. But that wasn’t the worst.’ Her voice, which had gradually dropped to a mere whisper, rose again. ‘I think it started with a mist in the middle of the circle, but it was no ordinary mist. It kept twisting and forming itself into shapes.’

  ‘What sort of shapes?’ he asked sharply. Yesterday, he had seen an odd shape that had appeared compounded of mist.

  Anne looked at him curiously for a moment, then said tightly: ‘Some of them were like men and women, oddly bowed, moving around in a wide circle but keeping among the Standing Stones. But there were others —’

  ‘Others?’ Amberley was aware of the sudden tightening in his chest.

  ‘Shapes that weren’t even remotely human! I think I must have fainted for a time. The next thing I knew, Malcolm was helping me back down the hillside, telling me it was all right, that it was just something we had imagined up there.’ She shivered convulsively. ‘But it wasn’t. Whatever it was, it was as real as you or I.’

  So there was something undeniably evil here in this quiet country village, something his brother had been on the track of and which had almost certainly been the cause of his death. He knew at that moment that he would not possibly be able to leave Tormount without getting to the bottom of this mystery.

  Abruptly, he changed the subject: ‘I saw you go out to Malcolm’s house late last night, Anne. I didn’t know you had a key.’

  ‘Why yes. I used to help Malcolm with his cataloguing and typing. He gave me one some time ago.’ She got to her feet, made her way across the room and came back with it. ‘I went there last night hoping I might be able to find something that would throw some light on his death.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No. I thought perhaps I might find the camera, or the tape. That, at least would give me some proof of what actually happened.’

  ‘I think the sooner I look over the place, the better.’ He smiled faintly. ‘That was the reason I got the keys from Sergeant Willingham. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to come with me? After all, you know the house far better than I do.’

  ‘I’d be glad to help. I’ll leave a note for Dad just to stop him worrying. This business has hit him hard. He liked Malcolm a lot.’

  *

  Their footsteps echoed in the long, dusty hall. The smell of the abandoned house lay all around them, getting into their nostrils as they made their way into the library, which opened off to one side of the central stairway.

  ‘This is where Malcolm did all of his work.’ Anne said, an expressive sweep of her right arm taking in the whole room. ‘I thought there might be something here, but I could find nothing.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Slowly, he made his way along the long shelves of books. Many seemed incredibly old, priceless first editions in their original bindings. Some were almost devoid of any title on the outer cover, others could just be read and no more. Yet he saw enough to tell him the sort of research that his brother had been doing during the years he had lived in Tormount.

  ‘Have you found something?’ Anne came and stood beside him, looking down at the book in his hand.

  ‘I must confess I never expected to find this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘As far as I know, the only other copy in the country is kept under lock and key in a special room at the British Museum.’

  ‘The Daemonomicon,’ murmured the girl. ‘What does it mean? I’ve never seen this volume before.’

  ‘I’m quite sure it isn’t the kind of thing he would parade in front of anyone,’ said Terence with a shudder. ‘I’ve heard vaguely of it, but I never thought I’d be ever holding a copy in my hand.’ He turned the stained, yellowed pages. The corner of one of the pages had been turned down and a passage marked in the margin.

  Terence carried the book over to the window, held it to the light and began to read:

  ‘‘The land which lies to the north of the village of Tormount has long been known to be accursed. In particular, the area known as Cranston’s Hill is the reputed centre of satanic activities surpassing even those of Thurnley Abbey and High Tor in Devon. The Standing Stones are of great antiquity, dating from prehistoric times but it was during the late thirteenth century that the first stories of magical rites became rife throughout the countryside.

  ‘‘The folklore associated with these evil practices and particularly with the family of the de Grinleys, landowners and lords of the manor, continued for more than four centuries during which time, various witch-trials were carried out, resulting in the burning of at least thirty men and women accused of selling their souls to the Devil and participating in the inhuman and blasphemous iniquities centered around the Standing Stones. The last of the great wizards was Richard de Grinley (1642 —) whose death was never recorded.

  ‘‘The legends associated with this man are many and well-documented, including his ability to raise and converse with the evil powers, the raising of the dead and his prophecy that he would never die so long as the Altar of Belial remained in the village.’’

  ‘What can it all mean?’ Anne asked in an awe-struck tone. ‘How can anyone live all of this time?’

  ‘They can’t,’ said Terence fiercely. ‘This is just another of those old village legends. But that doesn’t mean, unfortunately, that there isn’t any evil still present. Evil can exist in many forms, but it nearly always needs some focus on which to fasten itself.’ He tightened his lips, replaced the book on the shelf. ‘It’s rather like magnetism. You need the poles of a magnet before you can get a magnetic field. You can’t see the field once you’ve generated it. But you can see the tremendous effects it can have on pieces of iron. An evil force is much the same. You need a pole so that it may be generated, very often as in the case of poltergeists someone who isn’t even aware that they are the cause of the phenomenon.’

  ‘How horrible.’ She shuddered, turned away. ‘I’ve never heard of the de Grinleys. They must have owned the manor in those days. Perhaps Lady Parrish may know of them.’

  ‘We can ask her. But first I’d like to take a further look around here. If, as you say, Malcolm took a cine-camera and a tape-recorder up on top of Cranston’s Hill that night, then my guess is he would waste no time in developing the film and playing back the tape. He isn’t likely to have destroyed such valuable pieces of evidence, so they have to be around here someplace. Not that he would leave them in full view for anybody to find.’

  A thorough search of the library revealed nothing. There were many more books whose half-obliterated titles both intrigued and frightened Terence, but he did not waste time going through them. At the moment, he was far more interested in finding more concrete evidence of what was going on in and around Tormount.

  The kitchen was nothing remarkable, nor were most of the other rooms, although they all bore the unmistakable stamp of a man’s touch, there being nothing feminine about them.

  They came at length into a large room at the rear of the house. It had the air of having been lived in and Terence looked about him curiously, noticed the door set in the far wall and went over to it, twisting the handle. It was locked.

  ‘Do you know what is behind here, Anne?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I think it was one of Malcolm’s workrooms, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Maybe one of these keys will fit.’ He tried them one after the other. The fourth key turned easily in the lock and pulling open the door, he stepped into the darkened room, left hand fumbling for the light switch. Snapping it on, he looked about him. It was a well-equipped darkroom. Lengths of film had been clipped on to a cord that stretched from one side to
the other. There was a stainless steel sink, an enlarger and a projector on a high stand with a permanent screen fixed on to the blank expanse of wall at one side.

  Just to one side of the door was a small metal filing cabinet and beyond it, a set of drawers. Pulling open the top drawer, he found it filled with small cardboard boxes, each neatly labelled, each containing a reel of film.

  ‘This may be what we’re looking for,’ he said with a touch of excitement. Swiftly, he examined the labels on the boxes. Fortunately, his brother had been a tidy, meticulous sort of person and all of the labels were self-explanatory so that he was able to ignore most of the reels at once.

  Finally, he was left with three that might be the one he was looking for. All of this time, the girl had been watching him curiously from just inside the doorway.

  He threw her a quick glance over his shoulder. ‘Would you see if you can find a power point in the room and plug in that projector, Anne?’

  Obediently, she picked up the plug, located the point near the door and thrust it in, then walked over to the projector and switched it on. The bright beam of light shone brilliantly on the white screen, forming an intense rectangle of light. It was the work of a few moments to fit the first film into place. Then he switched off the main light and ran the length of film through the projector. It had obviously been taken in broad daylight from a point near the summit of Cranston’s Hill, showing a panoramic view of the Standing Stones; great columns of crudely-hewn rock which thrust themselves up from the barren soil, forming a rough circle in the centre of which was a patch of ground in which nothing seemed to grow, like a wide scar in the earth.

  ‘That must be where the altar stood in the middle of the thirteenth century,’ he said quietly, his words echoing hollowly in the confined space. ‘I wonder when it was removed — and why?’

  ‘Or to where,’ put in Anne harshly.

  As he stared at the picture that was being unfolded on the flat, rectangular screen, standing quite still beside the softly-whirring projector, he was aware of a deep brooding menace? It was almost as if he were standing on that lonely hilltop, looking out on those pillars of stone. The angle of the scene changed abruptly. The camera had been suddenly tilted downward until it was pointed directly at the ground. For a moment, Terence felt a distinct sense of shock, as though an electric current had sizzled its way through his brain. Malcolm had clearly seen something at that moment which had diverted his attention from the great circle of stones. For a second, the picture was blurred. Then it came into focus with a rush. There were footprints in the muddy earth, which bordered the crest of the hill. An eternity seemed to pass as he stared at the screen, scarcely able to believe his eyes, or force the rapid thudding of his heart into a slower, more normal, pace. Most of the prints were those of bare feet, standing out quite clearly in the mud. But here and there, showing perhaps a little more indistinctly than the others — a fact for which he felt curiously thankful — were others that were not human!