Shrine

by Herbert, James

  There were more scattered papers, several Latin Mass books, and then he found what he had been looking for. There were three of them, each book roughly measuring twelve by eight inches; the covers were of stiff, yellow vellum, the inside leaves bound together by twisted vellum tackets, braided through hide strengthening pieces. The writing on the pages was forceful in style, each letter precisely angled, the ink brown and, unfortunately, very faded. Even more unfortunate was that it was all in Latin. But the date said 1556.

  Eagerly he looked at the other two, and the dates ran in consecutive years. As he handled the third book, a sheaf of loose leaves fell from the back into the chest. He reached for one and noticed it was undated. The writing was in the same brown ink and although similar in style to the previous handwriting, it was scrawled, less tidy, the lettering spidery and undisciplined. It, too, was in Latin. Fenn gathered up the other scattered pages, quickly scanning them for a date, smiling when he found one.

  The roof groaned loudly as the wind pounded on it; something broke away, probably a slate, and slid down, its fall muffled by the soft earth around the church. Fenn looked up anxiously and assured himself that the church had stood up to such battering for centuries and was unlikely to collapse around him now. Nevertheless, he quickly opened the holdall and put the three vellum-covered documents inside, first placing the loose leaves in the back of the book they had fallen from.

  The church door was rattling insanely and nothing could be seen through the windows, so fierce was the rain. He began stuffing the other books, sheets and vestments back into the chest, unwilling to search any further, the urge to be away from the church too great. He had the same sense of black oppression that he’d experienced in the crypt of St Joseph’s. The lid closed with a heavy thump and Fenn stood, relieved that it was done. Back to the car now, away from this godawful place, with its tearing wind and dark, dark church . . . He hadn’t noticed before just how dark it had become.

  He stepped into the aisle, averting his eyes from the altar. The howling wind outside sounded like the wailing of lost souls. The door before him shook violently and something made him back away. The lift bar above the lock jiggled up and down as if some neurotic hand outside were playing with it. The wood trembled within its frame and he could sense the pressure behind it, the gale screeching for entry.

  An awareness crept upon him with dank, scaly fingers. Something else, not just the wind, wanted to get into the church. Something wanted to reach him.

  He was still backing away, his eyes on the agitated porch door, drawing closer to the altar, passing pews one by one, the partitions screens behind which things could hide. The pulpit came into the periphery of his vision, rising over him like a tensed predator. To his right was the strange segregated room, with its empty fireplace, its picture of the woman and the Christ-child, with its window, the branch tapping and scraping at the glass like a hand begging for admission . . . with its dark-clad figure sitting by the empty grate . . .

  He stopped, his legs paralysed, his throat constricted.

  The figure was hooded, the head crouched low over its knees. It began to straighten, to turn towards Fenn.

  And the porch door burst open with a force that shook everything inside the church.

  32

  There never more she walks her ways

  by sun or moon or stars;

  she dwells below where neither days

  nor any nights there are.

  J. R. R. Tolkien, ‘Shadow-Bride’

  Fenn was thrown backwards, more by shock than force. He stumbled, fell. The floor was hard against his back, but he felt no pain, only a jolting numbness.

  The wind howled around the church, a banshee let loose, so that even the leaden font seemed to tremble against its wrath. Fenn’s clothes were buffeted by the wind, his hair swept back, coat collar flapping against his cheek. He was forced to turn his head aside from the initial onslaught, his eyes squeezed tight against the blast. Rain was carried in, dampening the walls, the pews, an ally to the whirlwind. The roar of air was amplified by the tight confines of the stone building, assaulting his ears with its frenzied screaming.

  Something was moving to his right, something black, small, rising from the seat in the side room, standing in the opening. Bending to touch him.

  He dared not look. He sensed its presence, glimpsed the dark shape only on the edge of his vision. He did not want to see.

  Fenn scrambled to his knees, swayed there for a few moments, the circling wind rocking his body. He tried to rise, found his legs were not strong enough to support him, even though the gale was not as fierce, its force deflected by the walls into confused and separate currents. He began to move forward, dragging the hold-all along the floor with him, fearful of the storm bursting through the open doorway, but more fearful of the hooded figure that watched him.

  He flinched as though he had been touched, but reason told him he was not within reach of the thing that stood there. It seemed that cruel fingers had raked his arm, leaving the flesh beneath his clothes torn and branded. The same sensation clawed at his cheek and he gasped, the pain searing, yet unreal. More heat – for that was what it felt like, raw, white heat against his skin – touched his outstretched hand and when he glanced down he saw the red weals already beginning to rise. His head was snapped upwards as though long fingers had tangled themselves in his hair and pulled. His body arched as jagged nails scored bloody tracks down his back.

  Yet the figure was still beyond touching distance.

  He staggered to his feet, fear lending him strength, and stumbled along the aisle, fighting the wind as a drowning man fights an undertow, forcing himself towards the grey light of the doorway, collapsing against a partition, clasping its ridge, pushing himself away, feeling malignant eyes on the back of his neck. He fell again, the wind shoving him with giant, unseen hands, knocking him to the floor.

  The large wooden door swung on its hinges, banging into the wall, cracking the plastered stone. Outside, the driven rain had turned the landscape into a hazy, moving pattern of muted greens.

  Fenn was still afraid to look back, not understanding where the dark-cloaked figure had come from, only knowing it was there, an unearthly presence that burned with malevolence. He crawled again and something tugged at his ankle. He screamed as the scorching grip tightened and dragged his leg backwards.

  His hand reached for the corner of a pew, the other scrabbling at the cracks in the uneven floor. His heart felt it would come loose in his body, so wildly was it beating. He was shouting now, ranting at the thing that drew him back, tendons in his wrists high and rigid against the flesh as he struggled to pull himself free. Then he was kicking, frightened yet enraged, eyes blurred with the tears of his own anger and frustration. Kicking, kicking, his knees scraping raw against the stone, globules of blood collecting beneath the fingernails of the hand that scratched at the rough floor, kicking, kicking, eyes closed with the effort but mouth open to force out the shouts.

  He was suddenly free, thrusting at empty air. He found himself moving forward once more, the wind still pressing against his shoulders, whipping his face with rain icicles. He was on his feet, staggering towards the door, still refusing to look over his shoulder, hot, corrupted breath warming the back of his neck. His footsteps slowed . . . slowed . . . slowed . . . the compulsion behind dragging at him, creating the nightmare of legs in quagmire . . . the childhood dreams of . . .

  . . . the Frankenstein monster ploddingly catching up, arms outstretched to grab, huge club-foot boots shuddering the ground . . .

  . . . the grinning Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum giant swinging his axe . . .

  . . . the slush-slurp of the Creature emerging from the Black Lagoon . . .

  . . . the dead son returning from the grave, thumping against the other side of the bolted door for his mother, who clasped the monkey’s paw, to let him in . . .

  . . . the thing that was always waiting in the dark at the bottom of the cellar stairs . . .

&n
bsp; . . . the green-faced bogeyman tapping at the bedroom window in the middle of the night . . .

  . . . Norman Bates, dressed as Mother, behind the shower curtain . . .

  . . . the white shape at the foot of the bed, who would not let him wake from the nightmare until it had dissolved back into the night . . .

  . . . the hand that would coldly curl around his ankle should he let it slip from beneath the bedsheets . . .

  . . . all the nightmare companions of his childhood were gathered there behind him in the church, every late-night dread creeping up on him, their images the tentacles that bound him . . .

  And like a nightmare, it had to break when the terror became too much.

  The release was like being blasted from a cannon. He burst through the doorway, skidding and falling heavily onto the path outside the church. He rolled over, resting on one elbow, and the rain beat against his upturned face with such force he was sure it would leave indentations on his face. The arched door loomed over him, the interior a murky cavern of gargoyles; the stunted tower rose above and for one brief moment he imagined he was looking down from the ramparts at his own prone figure lying on the path. He blinked his eyes against the rain and against the confusion.

  He began to push himself away from the threatening doorway, using heels and elbows, his clothes and skin already soaked, the hold-all dragged across the path with him. Chill softness brushed his back as he slid into the rough grass. He stared back at the ancient church, his eyes wide and face deathly pale. His brain screamed at him to get up and run. As he pushed himself upright he saw a fleeting figure just on the other side of the perimeter fence.

  It had risen from the sea of green like a swimmer breaking surface, and then it was running, pushing a path through the foliage, heading away from Fenn, away from the church.

  The figure looked familiar, but his thinking was too haywire to allow recognition for a moment or two. When he finally realized who it was he was even more bewildered. Grabbing the hold-all and tucking it under his arm, he ran to the fence, used one hand to leap untidily over, and fell into the foliage on the other side. The figure had disappeared by the time he regained his feet.

  A low gust tore across the undergrowth creating a sweeping ripple that reached him and made him unsteady.

  ‘Nancy!’ he called out, but the storm smothered any reply. He pushed through the foliage, gathering speed as he went, shouting her name. He wasn’t just afraid for her; he needed her. He was frightened for himself.

  Fenn ran on through the rain, the wind, almost blinded, recklessly crashing through the undergrowth. Then he was falling, slipping, tumbling over and over, rolling into an abyss he hadn’t realized was there. Stalks and brambles snapped at his face and hands, and he thought the slide would never end, that the world would never re-stabilize itself. He came to a cushioned halt at the bottom of the slope and leaves closed over his eyes like mischievous hands.

  He sat up and tried to shake the dizziness from his head. The movement only made it worse and the world continued to tumble for long seconds after. When the spinning finally settled, he searched for her running figure. He was in a narrow valley, woodland rising up on the opposite side. A rough, earth roadway led through the valley, disappearing in the distance round a jutting slope. Directly in front, no more than two hundred yards away, was a barn, the likes of which he had never before seen. It was very old and obviously no longer used, such was its disrepair; immediately below a thatched roof supported by stout beams, were openings, the covered sides of the barn itself reaching only to a certain level. The wood was faded and weather-worn, the thatch still thick but dark with age.

  Fenn knew she would be in there.

  He got to his feet and picked up the bag. Then, hunching his shoulders against the pounding rain, he lurched towards the barn. The wind in the bottom of the dip was weakened, its rushing sound softened. He turned quickly to look back up the hill and saw that St Peter’s was out of view, not even the tower showing above the false horizon; the foliage at the top of the slope swayed back and forth, bowed but resilient to the elements.

  There was no door to the barn, just a vast opening running half the length of its side, a post from floor to roof dividing the entrance. From where he stood he could see the interior was crammed with old logs, wood planking, and some rusted machinery. He had no desire to enter, for it looked even darker and just as foreboding as the church. Only the whimpers above the noise of the muted wind urged him in.

  He found her crouched behind a pile of wood at the back of the barn, her frightened sobbing guiding him to her. Her head was buried into her knees, arms clenched tightly around herself, and she shuddered violently when he touched her shoulder.

  ‘Nancy, it’s me, Gerry,’ he said softly, but she would not look at him.

  He knelt beside her and tried to take her in his arms; with an animal yelp she pushed against the side of the musty barn scrabbling to get away from him.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Nancy, calm down. It’s me.’ He gently pulled her back to him and rocked her in his arms. ‘It’s me,’ he kept telling her, his voice falsely soothing, for the hysteria was not far from his own mind.

  It took some time before he could lift her head and force her to look at him. And when he did the expression in her eyes frightened him almost as much as the thing inside the church.

  33

  Wake all the dead! What ho! What ho!

  How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low,

  They mind not poor lovers who walk above

  On the decks of the world in storms of love.

  No whisper now, nor glance can pass

  Through wickets or through panes of glass;

  For our windows and doors are shut and barred

  Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard.

  In every grave make room, make room!

  The world’s at an end, and we come, we come.

  Sir William Davenant,

  ‘Wake all the Dead! What Ho! What Ho!’

  Delgard pushed the reading glasses up from the bridge of his nose and rubbed at the corners of his weary eyes. The reflection from the ultraviolet light cast a bluish-white tinge over his features, the stark, artificial glare ruthlessly exposing lines of fatigue. The faded papers lay spread on the table before him, parchment edges rough and flaky through time; to one side was a thick, heavily-bound book, an aid to the translation of the ancient but enduring language on the parchments. He clicked off the fluorescent tube, no longer needing its peculiar light to enhance the faded script, and quickly scribbled more notes onto his writing pad. Then he laid the pen down, held his spectacles with one hand and massaged his forehead with the other. His shoulders appeared even more hunched, his chest even more sunken.

  When he took his hand away, his eyes were haunted, filled with disbelief. It couldn’t be true, the papers had to be a madman’s dream, the guilt-ridden imaginings of a man born nearly five hundred years before.

  Delgard’s mouth felt dry and he flicked his tongue uselessly across brittle lips. There was a tightness to his skin, a stiffness to his joints, the tension of the last few hours the cause. He craned his neck towards the reporter, who lay slumped in a nearby armchair, and imagined he could feel his own bones grind against one another as he turned. Fenn was fast asleep, exhaustion, and perhaps even boredom, stealing him from the late-night vigil with the priest.

  He should rouse the reporter, tell him what he had learned, but for the moment Delgard felt a stronger need. A need to cleanse himself, to pray for spiritual strength and guidance. And to pray for the defiled soul of one who had perished centuries before.

  Delgard rose and his large frame was unsteady. He had to rest his hands on the desk for several moments before he felt able to stand fully erect. The room settled around him once more, but his strength and vitality were still fading. He pushed back the chair and walked to the door, pausing to look back at Fenn before going through.

  ‘Gerry,’ he said,
but not loudly enough.

  The reporter slept on and it was hardly surprising; his mind was taking refuge from the terrors of the day. When Fenn had brought the old manuscripts to the priest’s house earlier that evening his whole demeanour had been one of bewildered nervousness. A cynic who did not believe in ghosts believed – knew – he had now seen such an apparition. It had taken two hastily swallowed whiskies before he was calm enough to tell the story coherently.

  Delgard regretted having let the reporter go to the church at Barham alone; he should have realized the danger sooner.

  After the incident at St Peter’s – an incident which Fenn had described in great detail, as though needing to rationalize it with the spoken word – he had found the American reporter, Nancy Shelbeck, hiding nearby. She had refused to be taken to a hospital where Fenn hoped she might be treated for the obvious shock she was in, and he had been too afraid to leave her alone in his or her own apartment. So he had taken her to Sue Gates, in whose flat she had fallen into a dazed sleep.

  Sleep. The tiredness was upon him, too. It was as though the unseen presence, the presence that had emanated here, in these church grounds, was parasitical, taking its strength from the human psyche. The weakness he had felt at the onset of the miracles, the interference with electrically operated machinery, the strange atmosphere, the vibrancy in the air itself, all suggested a reaction was taking place, perhaps a sapping of existing energy to create a new form. And, he now felt sure, the catalyst, both physical and spiritual, was Alice Pagett.

  He glanced back at the faded manuscript papers. The answer lay there, written in Latin, the ancient language common to priests since the Christian religion began. It was incredible, but then he had witnessed the unbelievable as reality many times before. The link, centuries old, was in those papers, the tortured, quirky handwriting giving evidence of the tormented, even demented, man who had written the shame-filled words. And that man had been a priest, a sixteenth-century cleric, who had sinned not just against his faith, but against humanity itself.