Dark Legion

by John Glasby

  ‘Oh, certainly. Although she will raise no objection I’m sure. She rarely gets out these days. She had a serious illness some time ago, it affected the power of her legs She can manage about the house, but that’s about the limit of her excursions these days. A great pity.’ He shook his head a trifle sadly.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, they were knocking on the door of the manor. Around them, in the garden the last of the red and yellow chrysanthemums were in bloom struggling to add what little colour they could to the general dreariness of the winter scene. A few late bees scorning the nip in the air, were humming among the flowers. Listening to them, it was difficult for Terence to imagine that there could possibly be any evil in this place.

  Lady Parrish, the butler informed them, would see them in a few minutes. In the meantime, would they please wait in the library? He showed them into the room at the back of the house where Terence and Anne had met her ladyship on the previous occasion. While they waited Park moved over to the wide French windows, peered out over the lawn where it sloped down to the line of trees at the bottom of the long garden.

  ‘Are those the ruins you mentioned?’ He pointed.

  Terence went over and stood beside him, nodded. ‘Yes, I believe it was once a wing of this house, but since it fell into decay it’s been allowed to crumble.’

  ‘The original home of the de Grinleys,’ Park seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘It makes sense I suppose. Richard de Grinley must have known that sooner or later, the people would rise up against him and his evil masters, they would want to destroy everything associated with him. So he somehow took the precaution of having that altar removed and brought there.’

  ‘But how on earth did he manage that, unless he had several people to help him. You haven’t seen the thing, but it must weigh more than a ton. Even in these days it would be a large enough engineering job and —’

  Before he could finish the sentence, the door behind them opened and Lady Parrish came into the room, leaning heavily on her stick. She seemed a little surprised at seeing Terence there but smiled warmly and motioned them to sit down.

  ‘I must apologise for not meeting you when you arrived, but apart from Anne Cowdrey who often comes over, I get so few visitors and I tend to sleep late in the mornings.’

  ‘It is we who must apologise, madam,’ said Clivedon Park. ‘Unfortunately there are certain things which have happened in the village during the past few days which we feel must be looked into before they get completely out of hand.’

  A look of puzzlement spread over her ladyship’s features. ‘I beg your pardon, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. What sort of things?’ She allowed her gaze to drift towards the vicar. ‘Is it something to do with the church?’

  ‘Only indirectly, I’m afraid,’ murmured the other. ‘May I introduce my friend, Clivedon Park. You might say that his — profession — is the very opposite of mine and yet in a way we are working towards the same end, the desire to see good triumph over evil. Whereas I am more concerned with the spiritual welfare of my parishioners, he pursues the same ends on a more — ah, materialistic level.’

  ‘I still don’t quite understand.’

  ‘You may say that I’m a seeker after truth, your ladyship,’ boomed Clivedon Park. ‘I am more interested in the darker side of religion, the reality which lies behind the old legends of places such as this.’

  The expression on Lady Parrish’s face did not alter materially, yet Amberley felt certain that there was some slight change. Then the look was gone and it was impossible for him to be really sure that he had actually seen it. A look of fear at the back of her eyes, perhaps? A faint stirring of revulsion?

  ‘Am I to understand that you believe, as Mr. Amberley does, that his brother’s death on top of Cranston’s Hill was not suicide?’

  ‘I’m utterly convinced of it,’ the other assured her. ‘In fact, I would go further and say that it was some evil force which brought about his death. A force that is still active in the village, which could destroy everyone in Tormount unless we can put a stop to it, once and for all.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that. It’s too fantastic for words.’ She turned her glance on Terence. ‘I’m sorry if I have to say this in front of you, Mr. Amberley. I know how you must feel about the way your brother died, but you can’t go in the face of the facts. They were all brought out at the inquest, so I’m told. As for this ridiculous suggestion of evil, what possible proof do you have?’

  ‘Nothing that would stand up in the eyes of the law,’ Park admitted. ‘But more than enough to convince ourselves.’

  ‘And why have you come to see me?’

  ‘I think I can explain that, Lady Parrish,’ said Terence. ‘When Anne and I came to see you a couple of days ago, we went down to the old manor. There are certain things in the vaults down there that may give us additional proof. What I saw down there scared me and I’m quite prepared to admit it. I’m no expert, but Park here has seen these things before, would know what was important and what was not.’

  ‘And you want to go back there?’

  ‘With your permission, of course,’ said the vicar smoothly. ‘Believe me, I would not be a party to this if I did not believe that there is something in what these two men say. I’ve seen things these past few days which I would never have admitted to be possible had I not witnessed them with my own eyes.’

  Still Lady Parrish hesitated. Terence glanced at her in surprise. She had readily given Anne and himself permission to go through the old ruins. Was she afraid that whatever they might discover down there, it had the power to bring things to a head? Did she more than half suspect the grim and terrible truth that lay behind all of this?

  Lady Parrish nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well, Vicar. I suppose there is nothing I can do or say which will stop you from going through with this ridiculous notion you have. Although what it is you expect to find down there I can’t imagine.’

  *

  After the torrential rain of the previous evening, the grass and moss-covered stones were still wet and treacherous and they were forced to pick their way carefully among the fallen blocks of masonry. One false move and it could have meant a broken limb at the bottom of the narrow passageway that led into the bowels of the earth. The vicar had taken the precaution of bringing a torch with him and he played the light over the dark, moisture-running steps as they made their way downward. All around them was a chaos of fallen blocks of stone and then the midnight black rift began to yawn, the stone walls here contrasting oddly with those above the ground. It was almost as if some other race had carved this great cavern that led beneath the massive foundations.

  A faint, insidious stream of cold air trickled up from below, touching their faces with chill, clammy fingers. What primal, inconceivable force, what benighted devilment, had prompted anyone to build these subterranean vaults? Merely as a burial place for the de Grinleys? His mind rejected that notion, persisted in seeking some other reason for it.

  He moved automatically after the tall, lanky form of Clivedon Park, with the tubby figure of the vicar bringing up the rear. More and more, he felt as if he were in the clutch of some compelling fate. The brilliant beam of the torch held in Park’s hand provided far more light than had his lighter on that previous occasion and now it was possible to see in much clearer outline the hideous carvings which adorned the walls of the downward sloping passage. Park had seen them too, for at intervals, he paused in his descent and bent to examine them more closely, saying nothing, but nodding his head occasionally as though confirming that this was something he had expected to find.

  The sinister incline continued for perhaps thirty feet and then levelled off into the first chamber, the vault of the de Grinleys. Park halted, swung the beam of the torch around the dank walls, overgrown here and there with the leprous white fungoid growths and patches of a greyish moss that bore an unwholesome and unhealthy sheen in the light.

  ‘You were obviously
right,’ Park’s voice echoed back to them, booming loudly off the enclosing walls. ‘This is the burial vault, without a doubt. Did the church records have any mention of it, Vicar?’

  ‘For most of the family the records are preserved in the church,’ answered the other, striving to keep his voice down as if afraid of the mocking echoes. ‘But they do not mention exactly where the burials took place.’

  ‘No doubt they wanted that kept secret from the rest of the villagers,’ said the other grimly. ‘They must have had the foresight to realise that in those days of witch hunting, any relics might be destroyed by the mob.’

  He walked slowly to the wall, bent to examine one of the coffins laid on the wide stone shelf. In places, the masonry seemed loose and unsafe and some bygone seepage of water into this region had worn a deep channel down one wall, leaving strange incrustations on the stone.

  After a while, Park came back, cast the beam of the torch over the roof of the vault before advancing towards the far wall. ‘I take it that the passage to the lower chamber is in this direction?’

  ‘Yes.’ Terence pointed. ‘That way if I remember rightly.’

  Reaching a convenient distance from the far wall, Park ran the beam of the torch over it. For a moment, it wavered indecisively, then steadied as it fell upon the rough-hewn opening in the stone. In spite of their brilliance, the rays of the torch shone only feebly into the engulfing blackness of that down-sloping passage. It cost Terence a tremendous effort to follow the others. He thought of that frightful chamber below them and again that sense of fate driving him on came vividly into his consciousness. He was acutely aware of the dampness, the chill cold and the moving flow of air that sighed up from the black depths.

  Here, in the torchlight, the carvings were easy to trace at close range; and the complete, awful linearity stunned the imagination and conjured up visions of dark nightmare.

  How long it took them to work their way down that terrible passage, it was impossible to estimate. Park heaved aside a piece of tumbled masonry at the bottom, then turned and flashed the torch on to the steps to guide them.

  Cautiously, they advanced towards the centre of the chamber, the torchlight easily picking out the massive block of stone. Park walked around it slowly, flashing the light on it as he examined the inscriptions minutely At length, he straightened. There was a peculiar look on his face, the angular features etched with shadow.

  ‘There’s not the slightest doubt about it. This is the Altar of Belial. If I remember rightly, Richard de Grinley swore that he would never die so long as this remained within the confines of the parish. Everything is beginning to fit into place now.’

  ‘I only wish I could understand it.’ Terence said helplessly. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘You’ll both have to trust me,’ said Clivedon Park solemnly. ‘First I want to copy some of these inscriptions down. Hold the torch for me, Vicar. Then tonight, we shall have to pay a visit to Cranston’s Hill. I think it only fair to warn you that there will be considerable danger. You don’t have to come with me unless you wish.’

  ‘What kind of danger?’ asked the vicar. ‘Spiritual or physical?’

  ‘Both,’ Park had already gone down on one knee in the inch-deep dust, had pulled out a notepad and a pencil from his pocket and was busily copying down some of the ideographs which had been deeply carved around the base of the altar.

  While he was engaged in this, Terence moved away from the others and acting on impulse, began to search around the walls of the vast chamber. Some instinct seemed to be driving him on. There were carvings here too, all blighted by the inevitable decay of centuries, In one corner, a tremendous mass of the vaulting had fallen and as he worked his way over it, clutching at the stone with his fingers, his hand encountered something small and metallic. Clasping it tightly, he carried it back to the others.

  ‘You’ve found something?’ The vicar glanced up as the other held out his hand towards the light.

  Terence did not answer, continued to stare at the object in the palm of his outstretched hand, something that, in the light of the torch, he recognised instantly.

  ‘So Malcolm did come down here,’ he said in an oddly hushed voice. ‘This tie-pin. I sent it to him three years ago for his birthday!’

  ‘This is obviously where he gained most of the knowledge to construct those designs in his room,’ nodded Park without looking up. He continued to write feverishly, covering page after page with symbols and diagrams. At length he straightened, thrust the notepad into his pocket. Taking the torch from the vicar, he played the beam around the walls of the cyclopean structure.

  It was difficult to estimate how far below ground level they were, possibly more than a hundred feet and not a single ray of light penetrated to those stygian depths where the smell of must and decay had lain undisturbed for centuries.

  ‘I suppose this must have been used as some kind of dungeon in the old days,’ Ventnor said in a faint voice, staring about him in the gloom. ‘In those unsettled times, the de Grinleys must have had a lot of enemies.’

  ‘I strongly suspect that around the time of Hubert de Grinley and those who came after him, it was used for far more terrible purposes than that.’ Park was moving unsteadily forward as he spoke, the torchlight now fixed on one particular part of the wall. He paused in front of it, holding the torch close to the stone. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Amberley peered over the other’s shoulder. There was a pile of debris at the base of the wall at this point and as he looked closer he was able to follow the outlines of what had once been a large archway but had been completely blocked up in some bygone time.

  ‘I wonder . . .’ Park stepped back a little, glancing over his shoulder in the direction from which they had just come. ‘If I remember correctly, we were facing east when we came down those steps at the top. They led straight down into that first chamber and there was then a right-angled turn to the left and we’ve moved straight on since then, which means that the tunnel, or whatever it is which lies beyond this arch leads due north from the village.’

  Amberley tensed at the implication behind the other’s words. ‘You mean?’

  ‘I mean that the chances are there is — or was at some time — a connecting tunnel between here and Cranston’s Hill. We should have guessed at this possibility. A secret way for the de Grinleys to arrive at the point of sacrifice.’

  The vicar frowned. ‘But this place must be almost a mile from Cranston’s Hill. It would have been a monumental task to dig a tunnel of that length in those days.’

  ‘Perhaps, But neither impossible nor unheard of. Even the neolithic peoples used to excavate such warrens in the hills. All that troubles me at the moment is who blocked it up — and why.’

  ‘Almost certainly the villagers when they rioted against that accursed family,’ said Ventnor.

  ‘A logical explanation,’ agreed Park, ‘I only hope to God that it is the right one!’

  Chapter Eight – Flight from Evil

  It was just striking eleven p.m. when Terence opened the door to admit the vicar with the tall figure of Clivedon Park looming up behind him.

  Earlier that afternoon, he had visited Anne, had told her a little of what had happened, of Park’s fears, keeping back only enough to prevent her from being terrified. He had managed, in the end, to extract from her the promise that no matter what happened that night, no matter what she might see and hear, she was to remain indoors.

  ‘You’re sure you’re ready to go through with this, Amberley?’ asked Park as the other closed the door behind them. ‘I want you both to clearly understand that the precautions I’ve provided us with may not be sufficiently strong to overcome this evil force which we are about to face.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ Terence said, forcing evenness into his voice. ‘I’ve come this far and if it will explain how and why Malcolm died I intend to go through with it.’

  ‘Good man,’ nodded the other. He gestured towards the stairs. ‘I think we
should go upstairs where we can keep a watch on the road at the end of the lane.’

  They made their way upstairs and into the bedroom where Park took up his station at the window. On his instructions, the light was put out and they sat in the clinging darkness staring out into the night. The sky was clear with only a few scattered clouds, which blotted out the stars at intervals. The moon, almost near new, would not rise until shortly before dawn and they could expect no light from it.

  It was impossible to tell when the sound first began for it seemed to have been there for several minutes before the ear registered it and it began to play on their senses. Terence found himself gripping the ledge of the window convulsively, fingers tightening of their own accord.

  One glance at the dimly-seen faces of his companions told him that they, too, were experiencing the weird sensation.

  Swiftly, the fear that had been crystallising in his mind reached a crescendo. There were still several lights showing in the cluster of houses at the far end of the lane and more than once he found himself turning his head sharply to stare at the skyline where the rounded hump of Cranston’s Hill lifted from the fields in the distance, half expecting to witness that same red, hellish glow he had noticed the last time this eerie muted throbbing had occurred, but as yet it loomed in total darkness with no sign of anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘I don’t think it will be long now,’ murmured Park, craning his neck.

  ‘What are you expecting to happen?’ asked the vicar hoarsely.

  ‘You’ll see shortly,’ was the only reply he got.

  A quarter of an hour passed. As they stood there, Terence was acutely aware of his heart hammering against his ribs, its normal rhythm speeding up as the tension continued to mount in the room.

  ‘Ah!’ Park uttered the single word almost explosively in a hiss of indrawn breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Terence peered out and saw almost immediately that the lights in the houses were flicking out, were being extinguished one by one as if at a pre-arranged signal. At the same time the throbbing vibration grew stronger, great eddying waves that pulsed and beat all around them. He fingered the crucifix that hung about his neck with shaking fingers. The urge to get to his feet and go out into the night grew in his mind, not as strong nor as insistent as on that previous occasion, but perceptible all the same.