Dark Legion

by John Glasby

  He heard Anne’s sharp intake of breath, knew she had seen them too. Had they been formed by some animal which had been deliberately taken up there to be sacrificed? It was the only thought that occurred to him. A moment later, the last few frames of the film clattered through the projector and there was only the glaring white light showing on the screen.

  A sudden feeling of nausea overtook him, but he forced it away with an effort. He felt the girl move a little closer towards him, her hand on his arm.

  ‘Those strange prints in the mud,’ she whispered. ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Just some animal,’ he forced himself to say. ‘There’s no date on this reel of film, but if Malcolm took it, as I’m sure he did, then it must mean that these hideous rites are still going on up there on top of Cranston’s Hill. Those prints couldn’t have been much more than a day old when he filmed them. The next shower of rain would have washed them away completely.’

  He replaced the reel in its box, ran the second one through. It showed nothing more than a few isolated views of the village, taken from different places. The main theme seemed to be centered on the ancient church. There were one or two sequences shot inside the church itself, mainly very dim pictures because of the poor lighting conditions, so that few of the finer details were visible.

  ‘Nothing much there,’ he said, as he put it back. He picked up the last box, turned it over in his hands, noticing that this one, out of all those he had found, did not have any label on it. It had evidently been exposed and processed though and he found his fingers trembling a little as he fitted it into the projector. The feeling of a third presence in that small room was so strong now that he found himself glancing over his shoulder with a nervous apprehension. Shaking off the feeling, he pressed down the projector switch. The screen was dark, almost completely so. Then he felt Anne’s fingers clutch his wrist, heard her harsh whisper.

  ‘This is the film, Terry. I’d know it anywhere.’

  He held his breath. The lighting was extremely poor but vaguely he was able to make out the great columns of stone as the images flickered across the screen. There was a pale flooding of moonlight but this only served to enhance the darkness rather than diminish it.

  ‘Watch closely!’ commanded the girl. Terence felt her body go rigid beside him.

  At first, he could see nothing other than the Standing Stones, almost exactly as he had seen them in the first film he had run, although from a somewhat different angle and from a point much closer. Then, without warning, he felt the muscles of his stomach contract painfully. For there was something there, something seen dimly and oddly distorted as if the camera had been out of focus when the pictures had been taken. He felt his eyes twisting as he tried to make out what he was seeing, but several moments fled before the realisation came to him that those vague images were in focus; it was simply that his mind had been insisting that they had been human figures and was concentrating on looking at them as such; whereas now that his vision had re-orientated itself with a sudden rush of clarity, he saw that there was very little about them which was human at all.

  The nausea came back in an overwhelming rush. What fiendish blasphemies were these that had been captured in such faithful detail by the innocent emulsion of the film? It was like a picture drawn from Dante’s Hell itself.

  Sweat, clammy and cold, commenced to trickle down his back. The scene was terrible and terrifying. There was a mind-engulfing sense of utter disbelief and horror. Had those things been of flesh and blood, he knew he would have lost his senses. As it was, there was some unsubstantial quality about them. He recalled the words that Anne had used only a little while before. Like things shaped out of mist. It was a very good description, but it only did partial justice to the horror of them all.

  When the last frame clicked through the projector and the light of the bulb lanced out, blotting out everything, he had to force himself upright, standing with one arm around the girl’s waist and the other clinging with a desperate strength to the edge of the small table on which the projector stood. He turned to glance down at Anne’s upturned face.

  The same look of indescribable horror was there which he knew to be mirrored on his own.

  He wiped a shaking hand across his wet forehead, switched off the machine and walked mechanically to the door to put on the room light.

  ‘Do you believe me now?’ whispered Anne. Her hand was up to her face, her eyes wide, the pupils dilated. ‘If we showed that film to the police they would have to believe us too.’

  ‘No. We can’t do that.’ He shook his head violently. ‘It would prove nothing as far as they were concerned.’

  ‘But those things we saw —’ began the girl.

  ‘Could very easily have been faked by Malcolm. He was an expert photographer and it just isn’t true that the camera never lies. No, we have to get more proof, much more, before we can go to them for help.’

  ‘What more can we possibly get?’

  ‘At the moment, I’m not sure. I need some time to think this out. But of one thing I am convinced. Somewhere in this village, there is someone who knows much more of this terrible affair than either you or I. Possibly much more than Malcolm ever guessed or discovered.’

  ‘How can you be so certain of that?’

  ‘Because as I explained earlier, for evil to exist like this there has to be a pole of power, some focus which can not only attract it, but also concentrate it to the point where it can have a separate existence. It may be that we’re too late. That whoever, or whatever, this person or object is, is no longer needed. If that should happen to be the case, then God help us all — because nothing else can.’

  They locked the house and made their way back along the narrow winding lane and it was not until they had turned the corner and were out of sight of the building that any sense of normality returned to them, that they were able to breathe properly once more and think clearly again. They were halfway along the main street before Anne found her voice again.

  ‘It was real, wasn’t it, Terry? I mean we did see those things on that film?’

  ‘We saw them,’ he said grimly. ‘And they were only too real.’

  Chapter Three – The Standing Stones

  Two miles out of Tormount the hills pressed close to the narrow country road and there was something odd and sinister in their aspect, something about the too-rounded summits, which sent a little chill through Terence Amberley’s mind as he walked slowly along the deserted road. He had left the main road ten minutes before, striking northward and upward to where Cranston’s Hill loomed up on the near horizon, its summit, higher than any of the others by almost a hundred and fifty feet, wreathed in a grey mist that, from ground level, obscured all sight of the Standing Stones.

  Anne had begged him to allow her to accompany him but he did not want her with him on this particular occasion; not after what he had seen on that film in Malcolm’s darkroom the previous day. It was not a wholesome landscape that he was now entering. The stillness of something very like death hung over the untilled fields and even the hedgerows and small copses that dotted the area, seemed utterly devoid of life. There were no wild creatures around, scurrying through the tangled underbrush, no birds whistling on the branches of the curiously stunted, deformed trees. Even the vegetation which did grow out here was oddly twisted and unnaturally shaped as if nature had decided to run riot and the plants that did grow, sucked an unwholesome nourishment out of the ground.

  The road ran through a small grove, the leaves and branches meeting over his head in a thick ceiling of matted green and brown, shutting out the light of the pale, wintry sun. The air under the trees was still and smelled of dampness and decay. Fear had once lurked on Cranston’s Hill. Still lurked there if Malcolm had been right and that film had told the truth. Maybe it was nothing more than a tradition, which had been handed down by word of mouth for centuries and written in those old, rotting manuscripts of which Malcolm had talked before he had died. Over the years, a
tradition could turn into something more than mere myth, could become so real that its effect on people, particularly simpleminded, superstitious people like these, could be little short of disastrous.

  He felt that he would have to discover more about the de Grinley family. There, he was sure, lay the key to the whole mystery. Coming out of the shadow of the grove, he drew in a deep breath of air that seemed suddenly a little purer and cleaner. Leaving the deep gloom behind, he struck out over the ridged brow of the hill, the road gradually degenerating into a track and finally into nothing more than a vaguely-seen scar on the earth where the grass seemed to have been trampled down by countless ages of feet so that it refused to grow with the same unnatural luxuriance as on either side.

  Minutes later, he was approaching the wall of mist which shrouded the crest. The sun lost all of its warmth and the chill clamminess closed in on him, seeping into his limbs until they seemed to be moving without conscious volition.

  He pulled his coat more tightly about him, turning up the collar. The sun had all but disappeared, glimpsed on rare occasions through the writhing fingers of mist that created a distortion of the rocks and mounds on either side of him, giving them shapes they never really possessed.

  How Malcolm and Anne had summoned up sufficient courage to come up to this godforsaken place after dark, with only the pale, spectral moonlight shining over the scene, he would never know. By daylight it was bad enough, but at night, it would be a thousand times worse.

  As he clambered over the edge of the ridge, some twenty feet or so below the summit, it was all he could do to resist the urge to turn and make his way back down again, but some dogged sense of persistence kept him moving, barking his shins on out-thrusting fingers of razor-edged stone, feet slipping and sliding over bare patches of treacherous ground.

  Finally, panting harshly, he reached the level spot on top of the hill, stood for a long moment simply staring about him, peering into the streamers of mist which parted tantalisingly to reveal scattered glimpses of the tall, grey stones which thrust themselves out of the hard, stony ground like the teeth of some great, antedeluvian monster.

  He paced slowly over the uneven ground. There was an air of primal mystery about this place that was due to something more than the mist and the utter stillness. If there was any truth at all in the age-old legends, then those evil men had chosen well to practice their terrible rites up here. He walked around the edge of the great circle, noticing for the first time that the surfaces of the great columns were not merely roughened by time and weather, but bore the traces of age-old inscriptions and carvings, many of an extremely hideous nature.

  Giving them but a cursory glance, knowing that his knowledge of ancient writings was not sufficient to enable him either to decipher them or to give a date to them, except perhaps to realise that they were definitely pre-Roman, possibly even pre-Celtic, he moved on into the very centre of the stones. It must have been here that Malcolm had been found. In his mind’s eye, he could picture Treherne coming up the hill, hurrying perhaps out of breath, not knowing what he might find, then stumbling upon the prone body of his brother, face-downward on the hard earth, turning him over on to his back only to find that he was dead, with a knife driven deeply into his heart.

  The answer to the mystery had to be here, somewhere.

  Sweeping his eyes over every visible inch of ground, he noticed at once the bare, empty patch that lay almost at his feet. It was an almost perfect oblong, perhaps ten feet in length and half as much in breadth. Not a single blade of the tough, wiry grass grew within it and going down on to one knee, he ran his fingers over it, grimacing a little as he found that the area was covered with a thin layer of greyish dust.

  There was a strange oppressiveness in the atmosphere as if the air were traced with thin, invisible filaments of panic. There was no sound at all, nothing to tell him that he was not absolutely alone in the place. This was clearly where the old altar had lain. He shuddered to think of all the hapless victims who had been sacrificed on it in days gone by, to appease the old gods, to bring the rain, give better crops, watch over the village and make them victorious over their enemies, when in reality their greatest and most powerful enemy lay within themselves.

  A virgin was sacrificed on a stone altar and a day later the rains came to break the drought. Mere superstition?

  The initiates howled and danced among the Standing Stones and their enemy’s cattle sickened and died. Superstition again? A man delved too deeply into these age-old mysteries, came up to this dreadful place at dead of night and was found stiff and stark the next morning. Superstition? Or was there some terrible power underlying it all? Something that lived and fed on those it nurtured down the centuries?

  Getting to his feet, he moved away from the patch of bare soil. On the point of making his way towards the great circle of stone pillars, he paused as something caught his eye. Slowly, he walked towards it, bent. It was a small hole in the ground, as if the earth had become dislodged and fallen in. Gingerly, he thrust his hand inside, felt cautiously around with his fingers. The hole was deeper than he had anticipated and in the end he was forced to lie flat on his chest and thrust his arm into it as far as it would go. His outstretched fingertips touched something cold and hard. With an effort, he managed to ease it towards him, curl his fingers around it and draw it out.

  The object was encrusted with dirt and grime but from its weight, and the dull shine that showed through in places, it was obviously made of some kind of metal. Squatting back on his heels, he took out his handkerchief and began to clean it carefully. Most of the muck and grime fell away easily and he experienced a shock of revulsion as he realised what it was. The slender blade was curved in a strange way and there were curious carvings on the hilt, images very like those that had been graven upon the tall stones of the circle.

  ‘Mr. Amberley?’

  The sudden voice, coming from almost directly behind him, made him start. He turned sharply to face the man who had emerged from behind one of the Standing Stones. Then he noticed the other’s clerical collar, recognised the Reverend James Ventnor as he advanced towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you, but you seemed to be extremely engrossed in something and didn’t hear my approach. Besides, the mist up here has that peculiar property of muffling sounds.’ He glanced down at the knife in Terence’s hands. For a moment there was an expression almost of fear on his bland features, but it was gone quickly.

  ‘I must admit I’m surprised to see a churchman here, Vicar,’ Amberley said as he regained his composure.

  ‘Because of its obvious pagan qualities, you mean?’ Ventnor smiled faintly. ‘No, I simply came because I thought this might be where I would find you. I noticed you leave the village and strike out in this direction. In a tiny community such as ours, the vicar learns much about everyone who comes into the village. People feel that they can always come to him with their troubles and worries.’

  ‘Oh? And some of them, no doubt, are worried by what I’m doing?’

  ‘To put it quite bluntly — yes. They’re afraid you may stir up things which, once set in motion, cannot be controlled.’

  ‘I suppose you realise that by saying this, you are as good as admitting that there are things waiting to be stirred up.’

  ‘You’re a very shrewd man, Mister Amberley. But I admit nothing of the kind. However, there are superstitions that persist in our tiny, isolated community. I can see that you are a very determined man and from somewhere you have got hold of the idea that there is something much more to your brother’s unfortunate death, than suicide.’

  Terence turned the knife over in his fingers. ‘Was it a knife like this my brother used?’

  The other hesitated visibly. ‘It may have been something like that,’ he admitted finally. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Buried in the dirt there. Judging from its condition, it must have been there for a very long time.’

  ‘Possibly. If the old reco
rds are factual, many strange orgiastic rites were carried out here in the Middle Ages.’ The other made no move to examine the knife.

  Carefully, Amberley placed the knife in his pocket, fell into step beside the other. He could sense that the vicar was uneasy as they had walked some way down the hillside in silence. Then the other cleared his throat and said: ‘Are you sufficiently determined to risk danger to find out what really happened to your brother, Mister Amberley?’

  ‘What sort of danger? The same thing that happened to Malcolm?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Amberley puzzled over the other’s sudden change of attitude. How much did he know of this bizarre affair?

  ‘You see, Amberley,’ said the other as they reached the road, ‘I am a man of God, but to believe in God, one must also believe in the Devil. Evil is a very real force. If the things that are written in the old testaments in the church are a factual account of what really happened, then there is still potent evil here. Evil capable of destroying a man.’