by John Glasby
Outside, the rain slashed against the windows with a sudden fury. It was certainly not the sort of night for a nocturnal mission such as this, Terence thought soberly. The three of them had talked this matter over all afternoon until they were dry of talk. At first, the thought had horrified him and he had been against the idea completely; but Clivedon Park had eventually succeeded in persuading him that what they were fighting was far stronger and far more evil than anything he had ever conceived and that the act of exhuming his brother’s body was a minor matter compared with the consequences of what would happen in the inevitable course of events if he refused.
‘Just what do you expect to find, Park?’ Ventnor asked thinly. ‘As you’re well aware, I’ve been following events in the parish for some time now, ever since I first suspected what might be happening. I even put some of my doubts and fears before the bishop but I’m afraid he is a very practical man and refuses to believe anything of this sort without some concrete evidence. Something that, unfortunately, I did not have.’
‘That is exactly what I am hoping to provide you both with tonight,’ declared Clivedon Park vehemently. ‘I assure you I wouldn’t dream of doing this for any other reason.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The conception of a material form of evil is one which few people will take seriously these days. The progress of science seems to have relegated everything like that to the airy realms of mere superstition. Only a select few of us know the terrible and diabolical forms which evil can take. Search back through the history of the parish, Ventnor. See how many of your predecessors attempted to exorcise this place of evil and how often they failed utterly and miserably.’
Ventnor rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘I agree.’ he murmured finally. ‘But even if we do find what you suspect, how do you propose that we fight this evil when so many dedicated and good churchmen failed?’
‘That, I’m afraid,’ said the other, ‘is a bridge we shall have to cross when, and if, we come to it. For the moment, I am simply attempting to obtain facts. Until we know where we stand, we can scarcely be expected to make plans, beyond protecting ourselves with some fundamental precautions.’
‘You mean this,’ Terence said. He opened the neck of his coat and pulled out the large silver crucifix, which Ventnor had given him earlier.
‘Exactly. That is one of our protections. The cross has long been one of the greatest forces against evil. Even before the beginnings of Christianity it was used by the ancient priests of various cults, developed from the still earlier charm in the form of the swastika.’
Terence replaced the crucifix, buttoned up his coat. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after eleven o’clock. ‘All right then. What are we waiting for? Let’s get this thing over with as soon as possible.’
Stepping outside, closing the heavy door of the rectory behind them, they staggered as the full force of the wind struck them like a physical thing. Rain slashed and hammered at their bowed faces. Clivedon Park, in addition to the heavy spade, carried a closed lantern, while Terence held a powerful torch in his left hand, swinging the beam ahead of him as he followed the others along the path which led through the rear of the garden and into the grounds of the nearby church.
The rain soaked him to the skin within moments, his overcoat flapping around his legs as he walked, leaning forward into the wind. There was a demoniac voice in the wild shriek of it as it screeched through the clawing branches of the trees, rattling the boughs over their heads with twitching fingers. Underfoot, the ground was a morass of mud and puddles that gleamed fitfully in the light of the torch and lantern.
His mind kept returning to that odd question which had been troubling him ever since this nightmare had begun; and again he wondered what fiendish method Malcolm could possibly have used to call up this evil entity, this — could it possibly be a reincarnation of Richard de Grinley — which now seemed, if Clivedon Park could be believed, to have brought the terror back to Tormount with a vengeance.
There came a vivid thunderbolt of lightning to the north and lifting his head instinctively, he saw, before the light had temporarily blinded him, the great, rounded summit of Cranston’s Hill, standing out on the skyline, crowned with those tall stone columns. The titanic roll of thunder, bursting almost directly overhead, deafened him and he cringed involuntarily, blinking the rain out of his eyes.
There was a sharp click as the vicar unbolted the gate in the hedge. On either side, the trees dripped mournfully, shaking down huge drops of water on to their heads. Baleful trees of a tremendous size and age, their trunks warped and twisted by the long centuries, leered down at them as they passed through and into the churchyard. In the near distance, the massive bulk of the church itself loomed up before them. The square tower showed briefly in a wall of grey as more lightning flashed across the berserk heavens. This time the thunder which followed seemed a little further away, almost as if the storm were retreating somewhat. But he knew from past experience that thunderstorms in this part of the country could continue for hours, moving around the hills on all sides, hills that seemed to attract the lightning and thunder.
Beyond the line of scarred trunks in the foreground, illumined by the lightning, rose the grey headstones, some half obscured by trailing creepers and the dark patches of moss that had overgrown them. Ventnor paused a moment later, looked about him as Park held the lantern high over his head, then pointed wordlessly.
‘That way,’ he shouted, raising his voice to make himself heard above the whine of the wind. ‘I’ll lead the way.’
Feet slipping in the mud, they progressed in single file, scarcely able to lift their heads as the rain struck with a million fingers at their eyes, half blinding them. Moving around one corner of the church they were sheltered from the full force of the storm for a few moments and Terence sucked deep gusts of air into his straining lungs, pausing to wipe the rain from his eyes. Park turned and looked back at him. ‘No time to back out now Amberley,’ he called. ‘We’ve got to go through with it.’
‘I’m not backing out,’ he gasped. ‘Just trying to get my breath back.’
‘Good. I thought for a moment you were beginning to have doubts.’ The other seemed satisfied. ‘I agree this isn’t the sort of night for doing this sort of thing, but it suits our purpose. I’m anxious that none of the other villagers should know what we’re doing. On any other night, there might have been someone watching.’
‘You think they’d try to stop us?’
‘I’m convinced they would,’ said the other enigmatically. ‘But not, perhaps, for the reason you think.’ He turned and followed the vicar, his coat tails flapping in the wind and rain like some monstrous vampire strutting among the headstones.
Terence pulled himself together, shuffled after the two men, along a narrow, twisting path that led to the far corner of the churchyard. Here, Ventnor paused to get his bearing, then moved off a couple of yards and pointed down at his feet.
‘This is the one,’ he said confidently. ‘But what has happened to all of the wreaths which were placed here?’ He waved an expressive arm to indicate the scattered mass of crushed flowers, leaves and stems. ‘Who could possibly have done this?’
Park placed the lantern on the sodden ground, then straightened, holding the spade in both hands. ‘The important question is,’ he said tightly, ‘not who did it, but why it was done.’ Without waiting for any reply, he gripped the long handle of the spade tightly in his hands and plunged it into the soft earth.
*
Maybe something has happened to me and I’m getting callous about all this, thought Terence to himself. They had been digging for almost twenty minutes and now, as he straightened his back with an effort, he saw by the pale glow of the lantern that the hole was more than six feet in depth. It was just possible to see Park’s head and shoulders whenever he straightened to throw a spade of dirt on to the heap beside the grave.
The thunder was still muttering away in the distance but now it was several miles away an
d the flashes of accompanying lightning few and far between. The rain still fell in sheets but the wind had died appreciably and it no longer slammed against them like an unleashed animal in the darkness. The night air was bitterly cold however, and he felt numbed in every limb.
When Park’s spade struck something more solid than earth, the hollow thud sounded abnormally loud in the quietness. In spite of himself, Terence started violently.
Clivedon Park’s head appeared above the edge of the hole a moment later. ‘This is it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Hand me down the lantern.’
Terence handed the other the lantern. The faint yellow glow faded a little as the other lowered it into the hole with him and the smooth walls of moist earth gleamed as the light was reflected off them. Now they could see nothing of the other beyond the monstrously magnified shadow that moved on the earthen walls. With an effort, Terence resisted the urge to step forward and peer down. At that moment, it was all he could do to prevent himself from turning on his heel and running from that place as fast as his legs would carry him.
Why, in God’s name, had he agreed to this terrible thing? Whatever happened, he fervently hoped that Anne never got to hear of this; for somehow he doubted if she would ever understand their reasons. Muffled sounds came from below and then, after what seemed an eternity, he heard Park’s sudden exclamation.
Ventnor started visibly. ‘In heaven’s name, what is it man?’
Park’s head appeared once more. He held the lantern in his hand and placed it carefully on the ground near the mound of earth. In a voice that was not quite steady, he said: ‘I think you had both better take a look at this. Shine that torch of yours down here, Amberley.’
Switching on the torch, Terence edged forward, shone the powerful beam down into the hole. The beam wavered violently in his unsteady hand. Then it finally steadied. As it did so, he felt the blood rush from his face, felt the cold chill of superstitious awe and fear settle on him.
This was madness! Utterly insane!
In the torchlight, they were able to see the splintered lid of the coffin where it had evidently been smashed by some tremendous force. But the coffin itself was empty!
Ventnor was muttering something under his breath but it was impossible for Terence to make out the words He stepped back as Clivedon Park placed his hands on the ground and hauled himself up. A moment later, the other was standing beside him.
‘Help me to fill it in again,’ said the other sharply. ‘There’s clearly nothing more we can do here. This has merely confirmed my worst fears.’
The rest was shadowy and vague. Terence worked like an automaton, not pausing until the job was finished.
Not until they were back inside the rectory did his mind begin to work again, more under the warming influence of the large glass of brandy which the vicar had poured out for each of them, than from any active direction of his own will.
‘What on earth could have happened,’ the vicar was the first to find his voice. ‘I mean — what we saw there. Why should anyone do a thing like that?’
‘Remember that we were on the point of doing it,’ put in Clivedon Park tautly. He ran his fingers through his sparse hair. ‘The question is, where is the body now?’
Terence leaned forward, startled. ‘Can we be sure that Malcolm really is dead?’ he asked tightly. ‘Maybe this is some hoax being played on us. Maybe he never was in that coffin at all.’
Clivedon Park shook his head. ‘I realise just how much you would like to believe that your brother is still alive. Unfortunately, everything points to the very opposite.’
‘Go on.’
‘You saw for yourself that the coffin in the grave was empty. There was, however, one thing you did not see. When I uncovered the coffin, the top was already smashed, splintered almost as we saw it.’
‘Then someone must have opened it some time in the past three or four days,’ said Ventnor.
‘Someone did,’ affirmed the other soberly. ‘But this was not a deliberate act of vandalism as you may think. You see — the coffin lid was smashed open from the inside!’
‘Oh God!’ The vicar’s sharp exclamation sounded unnaturally loud in the still room.
*
There was no sleep for Terence Amberley that night. Instead, he sat in the chair by his window struggling to arrange his almost incoherent thoughts. There was evil here, evil that seemed to come seeping in a black, nameless tide from the rounded summit of Cranston’s Hill, flooding from that terrible, blasted space among the Standing Stones.
Getting nervously to his feet, he put out the light and moved close to the window in the darkness. The village, that part of it he could see, was in almost total darkness.
The only light that showed came from a window in the rectory and he guessed that neither the vicar, nor Clivedon Park, would be asleep. Were they trying to make plans in the light of what they had now discovered? Would the three of them be strong enough to face up to the danger when it came? Was there any way at all by which they could overcome it?
He stood there for several minutes, eyes scanning the dimness outside. The pale sickle of the moon now showed low on the eastern horizon. The storm had gone, but it had not cleared the air; rather it seemed sultrier than before. Sweat trickled in rivulets down his back.
Somewhere, a faint humming seemed to have started up, faint and strange and so far away he could not be sure that he really was hearing it at all. There were sounds that maybe only the mind hears and not the ears. Just as a dog can pick up the shrill, silent blast of a note pitched too high for human ears, so this seemed to be entering his skull through the bones.
He turned his head slowly, trying desperately to discover the source of the sound: but it seemed to be coming from all round, muttering through the air, focusing itself on his receptive brain.
At times, it would retreat into the distance, before burgeoning up into a throbbing hum that quivered through his limbs as if a million tiny electric shocks were being discharged through his flesh.
He stood quite still, rigid, near the window. Then, of its own volition, his body began to move towards the door. It was as if an unseen hand had caught him by the arm and was propelling him forward, unable to help himself.
Perspiration ran into his eyes, yet he scarcely felt it. There was only those terrible fingers of evil power catching hold of his mind, directing him to he knew not where.
His oddly numb fingers twisted the handle, forced open the door. Like an automaton, he moved down the stairs, into the study at the front of the house.
Through the mists that enveloped his mind, Amberley struggled mentally to resist, but to no avail. The throbbing beat in his head grew louder, more insistent and demanding. There was no fighting it. This, thought a tiny part of his mind, was what Treherne and Harmon had warned him against. Yet how could they possibly have known about this evil power?
Utterly in the power of this terrible mental force, he unlocked the drawer of the desk, reached in with nerveless fingers and took out the ancient sacrificial knife.
There was a sort of diabolical crackling in the air of the room, a crackling which he knew could exist only inside his own head. Something was drawing him on now, out of the house.
The chill air closed about him. The haziness in his mind grew deeper and yet with that tiny part of his mind which still remained to him, he was acutely aware of all that was happening, could feel the wind on his exposed face and head and it was then that he noticed something.
Although most of the houses in the village were in total darkness, there was a pale glow flickering at the very edge of his vision.
He jerked his head round with a puppet-like motion until he was staring straight at it and the horror came flooding through him as he saw where it originated. In the distance, a mile or so away, the tall, rearing columns of the Standing Stones stood out in stark silhouette against the shimmering red glow of hell-light that shone on top of Cranston’s Hill touching the undersides of the lowering clouds with
a glow like that from the Pit itself.
The utter malignancy of that glow awakened the most frightful fancies. With slow, jerky movements his body moved along the lane, his unwilling feet continuing to carry him forward. The vast thunder of the sound filled his head like some great drum beating between the grey walls of his skull.
He sensed that everything he had done, everything that had happened since he had arrived in Tormount, had been designed to bring him out on this very night.
Reaching the end of the lane, where it linked up with the main road through the village, his feet sloshing through the puddles, he paused as if unsure in which direction to go. There was an unholy hush over everything. It was not the silence that came from a village in which every inhabitant was asleep; rather it was that of a place which had been long abandoned.
Turning, facing towards that hellish glow on the horizon, he began to shuffle forward. This was surely the end. He could no longer help himself: he was completely and utterly in the grip of something diabolical and satanic.
A low branch caught him in the face as he staggered to one side. Automatically, he put up a hand to it. There was blood on his fingers where long thorns had torn his flesh but no pain.
Vaguely, he was aware of what seemed like voices but they were almost drowned by the sound inside his head and he could not tell from which direction they came, or even if he was only imagining them.
Something struck him on the back. Half falling, he threw out his hands to save himself, went down on one knee. Then there was the feel of something being thrown around his neck. For a moment, he struggled. It was as if there was a fire burning in his chest, a boring agony that seemed to pierce him through to the heart. The next instant, almost before he was aware of it, the spell was broken. His mind was abruptly clear.