“Are you okay?” she asked. She hurried across and crouched down, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Get away from me,” the vicar hissed, smacking her hand away. “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”
“Here, let me help you up.” Chase was shocked by his outburst, but she was also concerned for him.
“I am beyond help. We are all beyond help. And he opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened——”
“I know what you need. A good, strong cup of coffee.”
“——by reason of the smoke of the pit. And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth: and unto them was given power, as the scorpions of the earth have power.”
Chase shook her head. The vicar was obviously drunk. She considered getting help, but she didn’t want to jeopardise his position or embarrass him. “Have you got a kitchen where I can make you a drink?”
The vicar grinned. “Behold I show you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed——”
“You really should drink some coffee.”
“——In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.” He started to giggle, rocking backward and forward on his haunches.
Chase shook her head, sighed and walked away toward a door at the side of the church, which she hoped would lead to the rectory.
“We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us ...”
Chase walked through the doorway and closed the door behind her, shutting out the vicar’s rambling sermons. She didn’t like to admit it, but he was scaring her.
Finding herself in a small annex, she walked through another door and eventually found a kitchen. She picked up the kettle, carried it to the sink and turned the tap, wrinkling her nose as the water ran brown as though it hadn’t been run for a long while. A stagnant smell emanated from it and she turned her head away to breathe in fresh air. When the water ran clear, she filled the kettle, found a jar of coffee in the cupboard and brewed a black coffee, which she carried back to the vicar who was still sitting on the floor of the church. She passed him the drink and sat on the end of a pew and looked at him, shaking her head and sighing.
The vicar stared wild-eyed at her, looked at the cup in his hands and then threw it against the wall where it shattered, showering the pews with coffee. “Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake and thine often infirmities,” he boomed.
Chase flinched. “Bloody hell,” she mumbled. She never imagined she would be nursemaid to a vicar. Weren’t they the ones meant to offer comfort?
She hurried back to the kitchen, found a cloth and a dustpan and returned to the church to try and clear the mess as best she could. When she had finished, she stepped back, eerily noticing that the coffee had stained the wall with a brown mark that bore an uncanny resemblance to a horned devil. Thinking that the image looked sacrilegious in a church, she tried scrubbing it, but the stain just got more vivid, as though she was uncovering a picture hidden by years of grime, so she gave up, hoping that when it dried out, no one would notice.
Although it was a struggle, and she ended up almost carrying him, she coaxed the vicar through to the rectory where she eventually managed to put him to bed. She sat with him for a while until she heard him snoring. She reasoned that he would wake up with a well-deserved sore head.
Although she felt guilty about snooping through someone else’s house, she needed to find a telephone. Through a door in the kitchen, she discovered a larder full of recognisable brand name, tinned food. There were none of the nondescript white cans from the local store. Not that she could blame him. She knew from her own experience that the white tinned food tasted a little bland. There were also a number of whisky bottles in the larder that she viewed with distaste.
In the antiquated lounge, she noticed photographs on a Victorian bureau. They showed the vicar and a cheerfully rotund woman (the vicar didn’t have his red cheeks in the photographs). Both of them wore wedding rings and happy smiles. The present state of the house didn’t reflect a woman’s general housekeeping, and she wondered where the woman (who was most likely his wife) was now. Had she left due to her husband’s drink problem? If she had, then Chase couldn’t blame her.
She found what she was looking for in the hall, but when she lifted the receiver, the line was dead. Why were none of the phones working? And how had she received a text message on her mobile when there was no signal available to make calls? Ideas bloomed in her mind, but she quashed them before they were fully grown. Exhaling a frustrated sigh, she slammed the receiver down and checked back on the vicar. He was snoring away and leaving him to sleep it off, she walked back through into the church. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the devilish stain, and for a moment she could have sworn that the silhouetted head turned toward her, but when she looked straight at it, nothing had changed.
She left the church feeling depressed, scared and lonely.
Walking up Slaughter Hill, she noticed Belinda was no longer in her garden. She was relieved. She couldn’t face seeing her, not after the vicar.
When she entered the garden of High Top Cottage, she felt a sense of relief, and when she entered the house and shut the door, she felt safe, as though the house had now accepted her. She glanced at her watch, saw she still had hours before meeting Adam, and decided to have a lie down. It had been an exhausting morning.
In the bedroom, she lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, pondering on the day’s events when she noticed the entrance to the loft. She hadn’t really noticed it before. Curious, she slipped off the bed and walked across the room to the dressing table where a long wooden pole with a hook on the end was leaning against the wall. She had wondered what it was for. Now its purpose was evident. She used the pole to push open the hatch, then used the hook to pull down the loft ladder that descended in a cloud of dust.
Chase coughed and wafted the dust away, and then she climbed the ladder and peered into the dark loft. Just able to make out a light pull, she tugged it, flooding the room with light from a bare bulb in the rafters. Cobwebs hung like macabre decorations from every available crevice and she decided not to venture any further when she suddenly caught sight of a box, half hidden in the corner. Curious, she stepped into the loft and crossed the creaking floor, squirming as she brushed away the cobwebs.
The box was an old wooden packing crate and she lifted the lid to reveal a few old clothes. Sifting through them with an air of trepidation, she half expected to see a large spider scurry out. Finding nothing else in the crate, she shut the lid and turned to descend the ladder when she noticed a hole in the wall. She only really noticed it because the light failed to penetrate around the edge, making it stand out from the rest of the brickwork. A cobweb hung over the hole like a gossamer veil and she was going to ignore it when she noticed there was something in there. Crouching down to get a better look, she was wary of putting her hand in. The cobweb meant there was a spider somewhere, but curiosity got the better of her. Screwing her face up in disgust, she brushed the cobweb away and hurriedly slipped her hand inside, snatching out the object and dropping it on the floor as she wiped her hands on her jeans, a tremor of disgust making her shake.
When she had calmed down enough, she retrieved the object to find that it was a diary. Blowing dust from the cover she carried it down into the bedroom, pushed the loft ladder out of the way and closed the hatch with the pole.
Lying on the bed, she opened the diary and began to read.
April 17th
Thought it was about time I started writing about what’s going on, as I can’t always remember things. Fog has been here for 3 months now. Woke up one mo
rning and there it was. Damned strange.
Damn arthritis is playing up as well so it’s hard to write too much.
Don’t reckon much to the food rations. Had better in the War. Unless it’s just me, they taste a bit funny. Can’t complain though. Not when it’s free and I only get a pension to live on. They’ve even got dog food for Samson, which smells better than the food I get, so perhaps I should eat that instead?
April 19th
Fog is still here. Heard some scientist giving a half-baked explanation for it. Bullshit with a capital B. They say we can’t leave the village, as though we’re under house arrest! They’ve even got guards posted to stop us. I didn’t fight for my country to be stopped from leaving my village.
Stopped smoking today. After fifty years, just like that. Didn’t even realise I wanted to stop!
Funny, but when the wind blows right, you can sometimes hear a funny humming sound in the fog. Some folks have started saying that there’s ghosts in there. Stupid buggers. There’s always a rational explanation.
April 25th
Not for the first time, I wanted to contact my relatives on the other side (think of the fog as a veil between this world and the next, the real world and the make believe, perhaps there are ghosts in the fog, or are we the ghosts?) but they wouldn’t let me. Said they hadn’t got the resources. Why are all the damn phones dead? I’m beginning to hate this damn fog.
June 4th
We had a village meeting to discuss the fog today (or was it yesterday?) that was attended by Drake who couldn’t answer any of our questions. Funny bugger. He’s always mooching around. He’s no scientist though, that’s for sure. Couldn’t answer diddly squat. (Some of us are planning a great escape, so I’d better start hiding this diary. Mr Jones wants to build an escape tunnel! Silly old bugger).
Arthritis hardly playing up at all today.
I took Samson for a walk, but he ran away, hiding from me.
July 15th
I can even throw sticks for Samson now without any pain. Doc says it’s ‘very encouraging’. More like a bloody miracle if you ask me. But I’m not the only one. Other people have noticed improvements in their health as well. Perhaps it’s the fog? Perhaps it’s not so bad after all!
August 22nd
Noticed the landlord, George has stopped using his walking sticks. He says he has never felt so good. Perhaps the fog does have restorative powers? Damned strange. Not that I’m complaining.
Mr Jones, Grace Hopkins and Robert Hunter lead the escape committee. I think the plan is for everyone to make a mad dash for it. Divide and conquer.
September 7th
Felt peculiar today. Had to lie down. Even Samson noticed, as I was pretty off-hand with him. Poor dog didn’t know what he’d done wrong when I started shouting at him. Have to make it up to him and give him a good long walk (it’s funny, but I can’t remember what I was shouting at him for!).
Escape committee has been disbanded. Mr Jones has disappeared. Folks say he made a dash for it on his own, but everyone’s now too scared of the ghosts in the fog to follow suit.
October 21st
Took Samson for a walk this morning, but only I came back! Samson ran into the fog, chasing a damned rabbit. I called him, but he didn’t come back. I heard a yelp. It was Samson. Following the sound, I eventually found him. DEAD. Some bastard had shot him clean through the head. Too upset and angry to write any more today.
October 28th
Went to ask the so-called scientists what the bloody hell was going on. They fobbed me off with excuses. They tried to tell me it was most probably an accident, caused by someone with a shotgun. I know the difference between shotgun wounds and bullet wounds as I saw enough during the war. This was a bullet wound. A man called Moon seems to be in charge. I’ll get bloody answers if it kills me. Buried Samson today.
After the burial, I walked to the fog; damned if I didn’t see one of them ghosts, white as a sheet, just standing there, watching me. Put the willies up me, that’s for sure.
November 3rd
Moon is still ‘unavailable’. Bullshit. He’s just avoiding me. Damned fog. I keep forgetting things. Putting things down and then can’t find them. Old age I suppose! And then there was old Bob. I saw him yesterday. Wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s been dead for three years, I think ...????
December 16th
Rages are getting worse. Samson cowers when I walk in the room. But isn’t Samson dead? Asked Bob about it, but he doesn’t say much!
Damn it. What’s wrong with me?
January 8th
I had an argument with Ms Woods in the general store today. Could have killed the silly old tart. Funny though, because I can’t remember what it was about!
February 1st
That damned fog. Going stir crazy cooped up in this village. Woke up with blood on my hands today. No idea where it came from.
April 17th
There’s a man hiding in the old farmhouse. Scruffy bugger, I call him the Raggedy man. I think he’s scared of something (perhaps I imagined it, but he looked as though he was scared of me).
April 18th
Grace Hopkins is dead. Folk say she was murdered. Some say the ghosts killed her. Did I used to have arthritis? I can’t remember. What’s wrong with me?
May 16th
The vicar came to see me today. He wanted to talk. Preach more like. I punched him. Am I damned now? Forgive me Father, for I have twatted a man of the cloth. Fuckerfuckerfuckermother. Says he forgives me my sins. What sins?
May 23rd
What’s wrong with everyone?
Raggedy man spoke to me today. He says he knows what’s going on, and then he ran off! Damned strange as I didn’t know anything was going on! Is it?
May 26th
Samson’s dead. I killed him, didn’t I? No. They killed him. Didn’t they? Who are they? Them? It?
June 9th
Vicar’s wife died today. I saw her die. I killed her. We killed her. They killed her. It killed her. Can’t remember properly. Is she dead? Can’t find Samson. Where’s Samson?
June 12th
Raggedy man knows.
There were no more entries after June. Chase read the diary again, but it still didn’t make any sense. First the dog was dead, and then it wasn’t. Then there were people dying or disappearing. What did it mean? Was it someone playing a joke? Or was it the ravings of a lunatic? She found neither option very appealing. Perhaps the author was mad and had been locked away – but what if he came back! The last entry was only a month ago. She shivered and went downstairs to lock the doors; made a mental note to ask Adam if he knew who had resided in the house previously. And where they were now.
When she entered the lounge, her breath hitched in her throat: there was someone at the window, peering in. She only caught a glimpse of them, the image burned on her retina like a photographic negative before whoever it was ducked out of the way. Expecting a knock at the door, she waited, but no one called. She thought of the diary; thought of the Raggedy man. Hadn’t she also seen something in the fog? But it couldn’t have been a ghost, because she knew there was no such thing.
Cautiously she peered out of the window, but she couldn’t see anyone. Even though she had only just checked them, she checked the doors again, and the windows. She wasn’t going to go outside to check if anyone was there. Perhaps she had only imagined it, her imagination fuelled by the diary and its peculiar entries, but she wasn’t going to take the risk.
She yanked the curtains across, feeling too exposed in the window.
An uneasy feeling settled over her and she wished her phone was working so she could call someone, just to hear the reassurance of a friendly voice. She felt like a stranger in a strange land as she read the diary again. The vicar’s wife dead, murdered?
A helicopter flew low overhead, the noise reverberating through the house. Peeking through the curtain, Chase watched it disappear over the fog. The damned fog, wasn’t that what the author o
f the diary had called it. She was beginning to agree.
Letting the curtain fall back, she shook her head.
The reference to the old farmhouse must be the one that Jane and she had found, on the far side of the hill. That was where the Raggedy man lived. The Raggedy man knows. Knows what? She wished Jane was here. Even more she wished Mat was here. There was too much going on; her mind was in a spin, the world spiralling out of control. She suddenly felt sick. Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to make it to the bathroom, she rushed into the kitchen and threw up in the sink.
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