Dark Legion

by John Glasby

  A sudden movement attracted his attention. A dark figure emerged from the shadows of the houses at the end of the lane. As he watched it was joined by another. He thought he recognised Doctor Harmon there and another shape, leaning on a stick, hobbling along the main road leading north out of Tormount that could only have been the bent frame of Lady Parrish. This could not possibly be happening, his mind screamed silently at him. This was some dream, some nightmarish illusion brought on by the experiences of the past few days.

  But then came the rush of fear as he watched the slow procession file out into the star-glimmering night, never once slackening their speed as they moved along the road between the tall hedges bordering the fields.

  An eternity seemed to elapse as they stood there at the window, watching until the last of the vague shapes had vanished around the bend in the road less than a quarter of a mile away. Then Clivedon Park moved away from the window, abruptly breaking the spell that seemed to have gripped them.

  With an oddly dazed movement, Terence followed the others to the door, down the creaking stairs, and out of the front door into the throbbing night. By the time they reached the end of the winding lane, the road that stretched away before them was empty, deserted.

  ‘We must hurry now,’ said Park tersely. ‘And remember — when we get to the top of Cranston’s Hill, whatever you see or hear, do exactly as I say. If we should be discovered, or even if our presence should only be suspected, they may either try to attack us on an occult level, or on a merely physical level. If we should have to flee, don’t let anything stop you. Try to forget that those people up there are your friends. They are acting now under the influence of something terribly evil. They don’t know what they are doing. Tomorrow morning, they will probably have forgotten all about this, would not even believe you if you confronted them with any concrete evidence.’

  Terence, as he fell into step beside the others was seized by a niggling feeling of unreality. He had heard how people could be hypnotised to do things completely alien to their character, and yet know nothing about it when they were finally snapped out of their hypnotic trance. But this seemed to be mass hypnotism on so vast a scale that it was utterly unbelievable. People like the much respected and revered Lady Parrish, scarcely able to walk unaided, moving with the rest of these men and women, up towards the Standing Stones to take part in some unholy ceremony.

  Now they were walking through the tall trees which grew on either side of the road and there seemed to be a curious kind of stirring among the branches and leaves which was not quite like the sound of animals or the footsteps of human beings. There was something out there, all around them, something that had them fixed with a hard and implacable hatred, watching their every movement, completely aware of them.

  It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Park halted, looked about him, then motioned to their right. ‘We’d better strike across country now,’ he said, keeping his voice down. ‘They may have someone watching the road although I don’t consider it likely.’

  Flicking the torch on for a fraction of a second, he shone it towards the tall hedge. A few yards further along there was a gate leading into the field. Fumbling a little in the darkness, he unfastened the latch and swung it open. Beneath their feet, the soft ground squelched loudly. They were making far too much noise, Terence thought in a sudden frenzy. Someone was bound to hear them.

  Ahead of them, over the fields, long, thin tendrils of mist oozed up from the moist ground. Away from the road, it seemed the mist grew thicker and all pervading, and soon they were in the midst of it, clammy fingers coiling all around them. The murmur of water came from somewhere near at hand and a moment later they were forced to jump a narrow stream.

  Now their route lay directly ahead and they walked slowly on with Park in the lead, the mist, dense in places providing them with sufficient concealment to enable them to move more quickly than before in spite of the impeding roots and thorn bushes that loomed up in their path without warning.

  The throbbing in the air now beat down at them; compulsive, threatening, summoning and warning. They continued on across three more fields, the ground underfoot growing more wild and desolate as they progressed and gradually it began to rise steeply.

  Terence realised they had reached the foot of Cranston’s Hill, approaching it from the east. Here they were forced to move more slowly and cautiously, their way barred by stinking pools of water which had collected on the lower slopes and all the time they climbed over the craggy outcrops of rock, they were aware of dim, unseen presences which seemed to be moving with them, just at the edge of their vision, never once coming out into the open.

  They had now clambered above the level of the writhing mist and for the first time he grew aware of the palely flickering glow that came from directly above them.

  Just what was going on up there among the ring of Standing Stones he did not know, but there was evil here. He could feel it in the air, soaking through every pore in his body. There was a smell too, like the stench of the Pit, clogging the back of his nostrils until it was difficult to breathe.

  The choking growth of creeping roots and thick, fleshy, abnormal growths thinned now and they were forced to worm their way forward on hands and knees, the razor-edged rocks cutting into their flesh.

  Reaching a huddle of low, stunted bushes, they settled themselves there and peered about them on all sides. Then, as Terence lifted his head a little to get a better view, the most terrible impression was borne in upon him — a sight that gripped him in a vice of absolute terror, The paralysis of utter fear held him rigid in that instant. Every nerve and fibre locked tight in a spasmodic grip, he could only crouch there and watch.

  There was a sharp rock digging into the palm of his hand where he was resting the whole of his weight on it, but he was not aware of the pain lancing through his flesh. Beside him, he felt the vicar shiver convulsively for a long moment. From all about him, there rose the stench of rottenness and decay, the smell of earth and mould and rotting tissue.

  Eerie and frightening beyond all description, the pale reddish glow pervaded the whole of the scene, lighting the carved columns of the Standing Stones, touching the faces of the men and women gathered there in a great circle inside the ring of rough-hewn columns, It was like looking out upon a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

  Only vaguely was he aware that the mind-rending vibration had ceased, suddenly and abruptly. There was a curious, absolute silence. In the hush he could hear his heart beating furiously. The red glow seemed to reach far back beyond the hilltop, touching deep and endless avenues of benighted blackness, hinting at dim shapes in the dark shadows.

  He saw the glare shine on the faces of the people of the village. Harmon and Ralph Treherne standing side by side on the far edge of the clearing. Little Miss Munderford, the post-mistress whose wild tale had scarcely been believed. Lady Parrish and many others he recognised. Small wonder that they had tried to dissuade him from digging any further into this mystery, why they had wanted him to believe that Malcolm had died by his own hand, so that he would leave and they could work their evil here undisturbed.

  He felt the urge to turn and run for this was madness of the most diabolical kind. The vicar’s body too was straining for flight, trying to tear itself from Park’s grasp. The other had turned his head now to look at each of them in turn and in that grim countenance Terence found little comfort, little assurance that the knowledge that this man supposedly possessed would be sufficient, would be strong enough to overcome this devilish force.

  There was a sudden movement on the very rim of the circle of light. Terence felt the blood drain from his face as he saw who it was. Slowly, laboriously, the figure moved forward, the limbs jerking and twitching like those of a puppet activated by strings, held by some evil master, responding to his every command.

  It was Malcolm!

  Slowly, the figure advanced through the circle of men and women, walked stiffly and mechanically to the centre of
the Standing Stones. The arms lifted suddenly, the dead body stiffened.

  The sudden appearance of the other seemed to break the spell that had held a tight grip on Terence’s mind. He was able to move again — yet he remained quite still, breathing heavily, forcing the air in and out of his lungs with a conscious, physical effort.

  Dark and tall, seemingly larger than life in the red glare, the figure remained poised in the centre of the ring and now there came a weird and undulating chant from the watchers, it rose and fell in a cadence that was both horrible and frightening. Nothing more could surely happen now, he thought frenziedly. He did not even begin to convince himself. This was merely the beginning of the horror. Worse was still to come.

  There was a shimmering of mist, oozing out of the ground, out of that blasted spot where nothing grew, where the ancient Altar of Belial once had rested. Straining his eyes, the blood pounding through his forehead, Terence watched as the mist curdled and thickened, took on a definite shape; a shape both frightening and familiar. A nauseous odour seeped up from the ground and threatened to engulf them all.

  From what terrible gulf of time that thing had been drawn, Terence Amberley could not even begin to guess. Monstrous in outline, yet oddly human, it stood poised in front of the thing that had once been his brother; the same thing he had glimpsed in that room at the top of the house, inside the pentacle drawn on the dusty floor.

  Waves of pure evil emanated from it, sweeping over them as they crouched in the darkness just beyond that hellish glare. Man or devil, it was impossible to tell.

  Terence breathed in horror as he felt the numbness seeping into his limbs. Beside him, he grew aware that Park had commenced to mutter through his tightly clenched teeth. The words were at first indistinguishable, but gradually Terence recognised that they were Latin and even as he watched, the other had leapt to his feet, the silver crucifix on its long chain, held out before him as he began to advance slowly towards that terrible monstrosity which had somehow been called up from the depths of the Pit.

  There was a kind of bluish haze and a weird spluttering and for a moment it was as if the creature shrank back, dimmed a little. There was a cracking sound in the air, but whether it came from around him or was merely inside his own head, Terence could not say.

  The repulsive figure reared up, seemed to grow larger than before, looming over the shape of Clivedon Park as he struggled to force his way forward, the long body, bent at the waist as if fighting some terrible, unseen force, strangely diminutive before that vast, rearing shape in the clearing.

  Fearfully, Terence could only crouch and watch, aware that the vicar too was murmuring something under his breath. Then he saw that the dimness of that hellish glow was not real but only one of contrast. Shadowy and monstrous, the battle continued for several seconds but even to Terence’s numbed mind it became apparent that evil was winning. Slowly, Park was being forced back.

  There came a sudden roar as if from a thousand throats, a yell of demoniac triumph.

  Then, with a sharp motion, a flick of his arm, Park hurled the cross straight into the devilish face which leered down at him. There was a blinding flash and when Terence could see properly again, the hideous monstrosity had vanished in a swirling of vapour and there was only the terrible stench still hanging in the air.

  Clivedon Park came staggering back. His face seemed white and bloodless. Sweat lay in a sheen on his forehead.

  ‘Quickly!’ he gasped, half falling against the portly shape of the vicar. ‘We have to get back to the village. Hurry. There’s very little time.’

  ‘But it’s gone,’ muttered Ventnor harshly. ‘We’ve beaten it. Sent it back where it belongs.’

  ‘No!’ Park snapped. ‘That isn’t true. I’ve been a fool. I should have realised it before. There is only one way to stop this abomination now. We have to find the body of Richard de Grinley and I think I know where it is.’ He had veered down the narrow, tortuous path now, his right hand gripping Terence’s sleeve.

  From somewhere behind them, there was the sound of movement, of wild cries, more animal-like than human. As he ran, stumbling over the rough, rocky ground, Terence threw a swift glance over his shoulder.

  Behind them came a stream of humanity. There was no mistaking the intentions of those men and women.

  The evil force had been beaten back, but only on the one plane. This attack, as Park had prophesied, was to be on a purely physical level. That evil entity which had been the reincarnation of Richard de Grinley, must have realised its danger. Now the thought had been implanted in the minds of these people that they had to be killed, or at any rate stopped, from continuing the battle.

  In a series of wild, danger-filled leaps, they reached the bottom of the rock-strewn slope. Ventnor was puffing and wheezing now. Splashing through the deep puddles, the water soaking their legs, they ran with leaden legs, driving themselves to the utmost physical limit of their bodies. Several times, Ventnor staggered and fell, gasping with the agony as the two men beside him hauled him roughly to his feet and pulled him on. There was the crashing of heavy bodies pushing through the stunted bushes and trees and now the sound seemed to come to the side of them also, as if a party of the villagers were heading for the main road in an attempt to cut them off from the village.

  Park reached a sudden decision as he too heard the sound and recognised its import. ‘They know where we are,’ he rapped harshly. ‘We shall have to go across the fields. A quick break. First we must get to the rectory. It’s our only hope.’

  Swaying like drunken men, they ran blindly through the wet grass and all the time they ran it was as if noiseless, unseen things passed through the air above their heads, riding the wind, following them. Thorns scored their flesh, tearing at their clothing. Their legs were like lead, lanced through with spasms of pain. Ahead of them, seemingly still far away in the distance, they could just make out the square tower of the church silhouetted against the starlit night. Beside it, the rectory stood in darkness.

  The sound of their pursuers was very close now, less than two hundred yards away. Hampered by the treacherous nature of the ground, the long, straight furrows over which they had been forced to run, it had been possible for those villagers running along the main road to draw almost level with them.

  There would be no escape if they managed to swing around, block their route to the rectory, although what hope they would have even if they did succeed in reaching it before the others, Terence could not guess. If all of their efforts back there on top of Cranston’s Hill had failed, what more could they hope for here? And where under the stars was the body of Richard de Grinley?

  A turmoil of half-formed thoughts roared through his brain as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clustered mass of dark figures break into view at the edge of the village, saw them pause for a moment as they looked about them, obviously searching for their victims. Instantly, the three men froze in their tracks, gasping harshly.

  ‘They haven’t seen us yet,’ Park whispered, ‘but they’ll guess where we are headed. We shall have to go through the churchyard, and at the moment, much of their evil power could be concentrated there. But it’s a risk we will have to take.’

  Leading the way, he moved to his left, away from the direction of the road, towards the narrow gap in the high hedge. Over everything now loomed the great stone tower of the church. Surely here they ought to be safe from evil, Terence thought. Unless, in the past, the church had been used for services other than Christian . . .

  They picked their way slowly among the canted gravestones, moving from one concealing shadow to the next, circling the great mass of the church itself until they came upon the tiny path that led into the garden of the rectory. Cautiously, they made their way along it.

  There came a vaguely muffled shouting from the direction of the village street. Another shout answered from a different direction. It was as though they were completely surrounded.

  ‘There may still be time for w
hat we have to do,’ Park said hurriedly. ‘First, Vicar, we shall need holy water. This thing we have to lay to rest is down in that accursed vault under the manor. Think you could go through with it?’

  ‘I think so,’ answered the other shakily. ‘But there is no need to go to the rectory? I have holy water in the church.’

  Turning, he pulled a large key from his pocket and led the way to the heavy iron door. Unlocking it, he pushed it open on creaking hinges and led the way inside.

  Standing in the cool darkness of the church, Terence felt a strange sense of peace after the terror and the pandemonium of the past hour.

  The vicar was gone only a few minutes. When he returned, he carried a tiny flask and a black-bound book.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he said quietly and to Terence it seemed that there was a new note of confidence in his tone.

  *

  In the darkness, the place was positively ghoulish-looking. Even the torch in Park’s hand could only illuminate a little of the ruins at any one time and on all sides, the blackness seemed more than absolute, holding a waiting quality of supercharged menace. Carefully, they let themselves down into the narrow passage at the base of the fallen, splintered stone columns of the old manor.

  There was still some confused yelling in the distance but most of it seemed centered around the church and the rectory and somehow they had managed to slip through any cordon that may have been thrown around the place, without incident.

  Amberley followed closely behind Park. Like a descent into some hideous, haunted well, the passage led them on, floundering ahead with faltering steps.