Was it mere self-delusion that the voices in his mind and dreams were those of the two dead priests?
Fenn moaned and he tried to resist, but the effort was too much. He could not even look away from the disfigured creature. In the church at Barham he had run from his nightmares, refusing to confront them, denying their reality; now he had no option in the confrontation. His will was too weak to leave.
Every person on the stage around the altar was in a state of near collapse. Bishop Caines was on his knees, one hand against the flooring, the other waving feebly in the air in an uncoordinated movement that vaguely resembled the Sign of the Cross. His lips moved ceaselessly, and spittle drooled from them to glisten against his chin. The words were almost inaudible, but they were clear in Fenn’s mind.
‘. . . Holy Lord, Almighty Father, Everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Who once and for all consigned that fallen tyrant . . .’
The priest who had been conducting the service lay prostrate on the floor, his arms outstretched as if in supplication. He was motionless and Fenn could see his eyes were rolled back into his head, only whiteness showing; the priest’s mouth was open but there was no indication that he was breathing.
‘. . . to the flames of Hell.
Who sent your only begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call . . .’
Some of the altar-servers were crouched over, their knees drawn up, foreheads pressed against the rich carpet of the centre-piece, hands tucked around their heads as if to shut away the evil that had manifested itself; others swayed as they knelt, white, draining horror in their expressions, but eyes riveted on the small, unclean figure.
‘. . . for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday Devil this human being made in Your image . . .’
Only Molly Pagett stood.
Yet even she was sinking, her arm still raised towards her daughter.
‘Aliiiiiccce!’ she moaned.
And the malevolent voice hissed back: ‘Your daughter is in death, sweet Rosemund. She, our Devil’s spawn, is between this place and the underworld, her service to me almost complete. None can save her. Nor save you.’ The scarred, bent creature turned her head towards the blackness. ‘Nor those who slew me and denied my right.’
‘. . . and likeness.
Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste Your vineyard. Let Your mighty . . .’
‘Noooooo!’ Molly Pagett stumbled forward, sinking to the floor, moving towards the smouldering thing, both hands reaching out.
And the creature who was Alice, who was Elnor, laughed, and Fenn saw a shape hanging from a lower branch of the tree, and it was burning and twisting, and its neck was stretched, its feet twitching and turning black, and substance was dripping from its body to fall steaming onto the altar below, and its head was aflame and its flesh burnt, and as it turned it was Alice.
‘. . . hand cast him out, so he . . . he . . . she . . . may no longer hold captive this person . . .’
With a screech of sheer despair, Molly Pagett lunged forward and touched the charred and rotted body of Elnor, then screamed in pain as rivulets of fire ran along her fingers, along her arms, engulfing her head and shoulders.
There was a silence. A silence that was as terrifying as the clamour preceding it.
Bishop Caines became quiet.
Molly Pagett blazed but did not move.
Fenn felt his senses beginning to fade.
And the image-corpse of the sixteenth-century nun chuckled as thunder suddenly roared and the field began to open.
Paula let go of her mother’s body.
The deep rumbling noise reverberated in her head as the earth wrenched itself apart, the cacophony of screams and shouts beginning anew. She watched mesmerized as a gaping wound appeared in the soil; it widened, ran jagged along the centre aisle, sending the petrified crowd clambering back into the rows of benches.
The ground yawned open and Paula saw the blackness down there, so deep, bottomless, an infinity of darkness. Yet, as moonlight fought its way through the massed clouds and cast its glow into the chasm, she saw movement, hands reaching upwards, limbs clinging to the soft, rent earth. Shapes climbing from the depths, figures that were twisted, that moaned and stared open-mouthed at the sky above, tormented souls that yearned for the world above.
Paula closed her eyes, telling herself it couldn’t be true, that this was not really happening. She opened them again and saw it was true, it was happening.
There were figures on the edge of the opening chasm, backing away, pushing each other to keep clear of the widening gap. Even in her own terror, Paula recognized two of them.
Tucker was struggling away from the pit, hindered by his wife, who had slipped, one leg over the edge, disappearing into the blackness. She scrabbled at his clothes, desperately trying to cling to him, but he pulled her hands away, afraid she take him with her, knowing he could not drag her weight clear. She screamed at him, imploring him to save her, but he shouted back at her, shrieked for her to let go, slapped at her face, prised at her fingers. She held on with one hand, the other grabbing at the sod beneath her, one knee on the very lip of the chasm. The earth crumbled beneath her heavy body and the material of his coat tore as she fell screaming.
Tucker stumbled back, then righted himself. He stood with hands against his thighs, struggling to recover his strength, soon realizing he had to keep moving back, that the opening was still widening.
He turned just as Paula rushed at him.
Hatred drove her forward, loathing for a fat bastard who had betrayed her, used her, abused her body, and lied, lied, lied! Beneath the ground was where he belonged, to wriggle and squirm with the slugs and worms and underground creatures that he was akin to.
She slammed into him and he caught her. But her impetus was too forceful: he could not keep his balance. He toppled backwards and clutched at her, taking her with him.
Together, locked in screaming embrace, they plunged.
Southworth ran from the door.
He touched every pew with his left hand as he passed, like a child touching every spoke in a railing, an action that had no logic, panic its prompter.
He reached the low rail in front of the altar and slumped against it, whining against the solitude of the church, afraid of the frozen corpses outside seeking entry.
The church began to vibrate. Statues around its walls moved, shifted by the tremor. The rail he clung to became impossible to grip. The cracking of ancient stone rang out like a report from a cannon, jerking his head in the direction of the sound. He watched in fascinated horror as the jagged line ripped across a wall. More ear-splitting sounds and more lines joining the first. Now from the other side of the church. Now from the roof.
Pieces of masonry began to clatter onto the stone floor. Powdered concrete descended as white dust, and the dim lights of the church began to falter, flickering as if candlelight caught by the wind. On – off – on – off. Then, just very low.
His hands were at his mouth, stifling the cries that nobody would have heard over the tearing of old stone. Behind him, candlesticks toppled from the altar; the tabernacle door swung open, revealing the white silk emptiness inside; the huge stained-glass window, donated to St Joseph’s by a sixteenth-century nobleman, flew inwards, sending shards of coloured glass spearing through the air.
He gasped as several pieces struck his head, scything through his hair and scalp, leaving fine cuts that quickly oozed with blood. He was fortunate that the rail he clung to protected most of his face and neck.
The turbulence became more intense, the cracking and rumbling sounds deafening. A long, jagged line appeared in the stone floor, running beneath the pews and across the aisle. A gap began to open, a scissure so black it seemed painted. Pews shifted, fell against one another as the cleft became a fissure, the fissure a wide split.
The knuckles of his hands began to bleed as he bit hard; he watch
ed slime-covered fingers appear over the edge of the hole. He bit down until his teeth were grinding against bare bone.
Hands, then arms, filthy with earth and mould appeared. Small black things scuttled out, disappearing into darker corners; something long slithered across the floor and curled itself around the base of a statue. More fingers slid over the edge, more arms reached into the air. More hands and naked, death-discoloured shoulders began to appear.
The door at the far end of the Church began to splinter, pressure from the breaking stone around it forcing it from the frame. It burst open and the dead creatures entered.
Sue felt strangely calm.
‘What’s happening, Mummy? Why are all the people screaming?’
She held Ben tightly, one hand against the back of his neck, his head tucked against her chest.
‘It’s all right,’ she soothed, stroking his hair. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
He pushed his head away from her, looking round to see what was going on. ‘I’m not afraid,’ he said seriously, eyes widening at the spectacle.
Someone hurtled over them, tripping on their recumbent bodies. The figure scrabbled to his or her feet – there was no way of telling whether it was man or woman in the poor light – and rushed on.
Ben sat up again. ‘I can see Uncle Gerry,’ he said, pointing towards the altar.
Sue pushed herself up, using the overturned bench next to her for support. The ground was still trembling, although not quite as violently as before, and the rumbling sound was now deep down as if in the bowels of the earth. For some reason people were fleeing from the centre aisle, but it was impossible to see why. She followed Ben’s pointing finger and gasped when she saw the scene on the altar.
There were bodies dressed in the robes of the Mass littered all over the platform. She recognized the portly figure of Bishop Caines, his sparse, grey hair flat against his forehead, dampened with perspiration; his hand waved uselessly in the air. Not more than two yards from him something was bright with flame. It was a figure, a kneeling figure that did not move, nor squirm, in its agony. Only the head, arms and shoulders were burning, the hands outstretched towards someone who stood just beyond the light thrown from the one remaining lamp. It was just a small black silhouette, a child’s figure, standing before the gruesome display, watching, perfectly still, smoke eddies from burst lights swirling around the altar. And dominating everything, towering over the shrine, was the oak tree, its stout lower branches twisted downwards like arms about to scoop up the fallen bodies.
She saw Fenn lying on the steps of the platform. He looked so helpless and afraid.
She stood, bringing Ben up with her.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Away from here,’ she replied. ‘But we have to get Uncle Gerry first.’
‘Sure!’ he shouted and scampered over the bench.
At once, Sue felt nauseous and dizzy. Her knees began to sag.
‘Ben!’ she cried out and he was back with her, arms wrapped around her waist, little face peering anxiously up at her.
The dizziness vanished. She swallowed and the sickness was gone. Sue looked curiously down at her son.
She bent close. ‘Don’t leave me, Ben. Don’t let go of me.’
He took her hand and together they climbed over the benches towards the altar.
Sue forced herself to ignore the pitiful cries for help coming from the invalids scattered on the stretch of ground between the front benches and the altar-piece, knowing she could not go to their aid, that she had to reach Fenn, then perhaps together they could carry just one or two away from there. She clutched Ben’s hand tightly, not understanding why her strength, her calmness derived from him, just aware that it was so.
She tried not to look at the burning figure and saw that Ben had become fascinated by it. She pulled his head against her hip, a hand covering his face to shield him from the sight, but he pulled her fingers open and peeped between them.
They reached the foot of the steps and began to climb.
‘Gerry?’ She was beside him, peering anxiously into his face. He blinked his eyes, seeming not to recognize her at first.
‘Sue,’ he said softly and she breathed a sigh of relied. Fenn suddenly grabbed her arm. ‘Sue, you’ve got to get away from here! Now, right away! Where’s Ben?’
‘It’s all right. He’s here. Come on, you’re coming with us.’
His head sank against the step. ‘No, I can’t move. I’m too weak. You’ve got to go without me.’
She pulled her son up the steps. ‘Touch him, Gerry. Hold his hand,’ she urged.
Fenn looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Just get away, Sue. Just go!’
She put her son’s hand into his and Fenn looked from her to the boy; then down at their joined hands. His sapped vitality began to return.
Shrieks of agony made all three look towards the altar.
Molly Pagett was slowly rising from her knees, beating at her enflamed hair with hands that were also alight. The sound of her screams struck into them, chilling them.
‘Oh God, I’ve got to help her.’ Fenn tore off his coat and climbed the rest of the steps onto the platform. He stumbled forward, coat held before him, ready to be thrown over the burning woman’s head and shoulders.
But Molly Pagett was beyond help.
With one last piercing scream she lunged at the dark figure standing just beyond the light. The figure did not appear to move, yet the burning woman’s arms did not strike it. Molly plunged off the platform, falling into the darkness to lay writhing in the field below, a fiery rag, the agonized shrieks slowly becoming weak, fading, stopping abruptly when her life was spent.
Fenn groaned and slumped to the floor, rocking back on his heels, his eyes closed, coat held uselessly in his lap.
The small figure stepped forward into the arena of light and stood before the altar, looking up at the tree. Then it turned its gaze on Fenn.
Lightning flashed, freezing the shrine, the field, the church in the distance, in its silvery light. Fenn, whose eyes had opened, felt he was not part of the scene, but hovering somewhere above, viewing from a great height and having no involvement. The jostling, tearing worshippers, the sick left behind, arms upraised beseechingly; the huge black abyss from which crawling things emerged; the church, its tower beginning to crumble, the opening graves; the shrine, the slumped bodies before the altar, the fallen crucifix, the hideous, misshapen tree. The creature who watched him.
The lighting flash expired, a two-second exposure that ingrained an indelible monochrome vision of Hell’s chaos on Fenn’s mind.
Thunder boomed, a deafening sound that overwhelmed all others and he clapped his hands to his ears in reflex.
Ben tugged at his mother and said: ‘There’s blood all over Alice’s dress, Mummy.’
Fenn stared back into Elnor’s knowing eyes and found himself sinking into their softness, a peaceful vortex that drew him inwards to be exquisitely drowned in their depths. He was aware of her delicately beautiful features, the whiteness of her skin, the moist, natural redness of her lips, even though he looked only into her eyes. He sensed the pleasing suppleness of her body, its litheness, its vitality, and the firmness of young breasts which the nun’s simple costume could not disguise.
Elnor smiled and his head reeled.
When she spoke, he barely understood her words, so strange was her accent and so low, rasping, was her voice.
‘Witness my vengeance,’ she said. ‘And be, thyself, part.’
And her eyes were no longer soft and brown, but were darkly hollow, deep pits that held him fascinated. Her skin was no longer soft and white, but was charred and torn, the lips burnt away to reveal stumps of blackened teeth and weeping gums. Her body was no longer supple and straight, but was twisted, bent, a warped, scarred figure that in some curious way resembled the malformed tree which towered over her. Her stench clawed at him in putrefying waves. He raised a hand against her, falling backwards, push
ing himself away.
Her laughter was insidious, a sly creeping chuckle.
‘Why is Alice standing there?’ Ben asked his mother.
The laughter grew, filled Fenn’s head, swamped his mind. Must get away, he told himself. Must get free of her. O God, Jesus Christ, please help me!
The platform began to vibrate. His hands were forced from its surface, his body rolling backwards. He turned, tried to get his knees beneath him, toppling over, the splintering of wood sharp against the rumbling noise. The long black rent in the field was widening, the gash growing longer, flowing like a dark river towards the raised altar, stretching towards the shrine.
The nun’s clothes were smouldering as she approached Fenn, and her skin was blistering once more. Yet still she chuckled and her lipless mouth mocked him. Broken charred fingers were reaching for him. A streak of lightning cut its jagged way through the sky.
Elnor was almost upon him and her breath was as foul as her body.
He screamed, unable to move.
And she grinned her death’s grin.
But then she had stopped. Was looking back towards the tree. Was moaning a low, piteous wail. She straightened and her broken hands clenched tightly at her breasts. Her moans became louder.
Fenn followed her sightless gaze and saw nothing. Then a shimmering.
A glow.
At the base of the tree.
He felt renewed fear, but this was of another kind. The glow became stronger, became bright, like a newborn sun. His hand tried to shade his eyes, but the radiance was too great, too blinding. Yet there was something in its centre. Something standing within its incandescent core.
And in his mind he could hear the voices of the two priests. Pray, they urged him. Pray.
He blinked. He closed his eyes. He prayed.
Lightning struck the tree and his eyes shot open.
The hunched creature was moving away, shuffling backwards, arms stretched towards the splintered oak. She screamed, cursed, her guttural voice rising in pitch.
Shrine Page 45