The Survivor

by James Herbert

  ‘Stop!’ the medium commanded.

  The Stag screeched to a halt and Keller looked at his passenger questioningly. Hobbs pointed a wavering finger ahead of them, towards the centre of the little town. ‘Look there. Don’t you see it?’

  Keller pulled himself forward by the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen. He looked back at Hobbs. He could see nothing, only the lights from the High Street.

  ‘There, man, above the town!’

  And it slowly became visible to Keller’s eyes.

  A luminescence hovered over Eton. A subtly pulsating effulgence, so faint, so tenuous, that Keller had to blink hard to make sure it was really there and not just a watery mist in his own eyes. It seemed to vary in its intensity, appearing as a thin luminous vapour in some places and almost as a star cluster in others. There was no telling its size, for there was no telling its distance: Keller could only guess it might be anything from a hundred to five hundred yards in length. Its shape seemed to be constantly changing at its ragged outer edges, like a cloud torn at its extremities by unfriendly winds.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked in awe.

  For a moment, Hobbs was unable to speak. Then, his voice distorted, he said: ‘They’re waiting for us. The dead are waiting for us.’

  15

  He crouched in the darkness and tried to keep very, very still. The heavy overcoat and thick woollen scarf barely kept the chill from his bones but he daren’t light a fire; they would be able to see him too easily.

  He moved his eyes around, their lids strangely held open by vertical white strips of sticking plaster, without moving his head, and peered into each dark corner of the room; no, they hadn’t come yet. They would, though. They came every night now. Sometimes during the day. He would hear them whispering to one another. Occasionally, they laughed. He knew they wanted him, but if he hid in the dark and kept very still, they’d never find him. He hugged the black-metalled shotgun between his thighs, its barrel pointing up towards the ceiling. Grinning to himself, he ran his fingers along its smooth length in a masturbatory gesture, enjoying its coldness, its strength. It would protect him from them, nothing could stand against its explosive power, not even those already dead. And they were dead, weren’t they?

  They had frightened him at first when they had come in the night, calling for him, taunting him. But they couldn’t touch him! He had realized that after his initial fright; they could conjure up images, scream at him – even try to enter his mind – but physically they could do no harm. Because they weren’t of this world; they had no substance.

  He knew they wanted to drive him mad; but he was too cunning for that. He had said months ago that he was mad, but he had paid for that now, hadn’t he? And other things! He was amongst them, one of the voices; he wanted his revenge. The man, crouching in the dark, clutching the gun, laughed aloud, then quickly stifled the sound. Mustn’t let them know where I am. Mustn’t let him know.

  He had paid for his betrayal; his death had been the price. The others who had died with him were unimportant; their lives had no value. He was pleased they were still suffering: death had been no release for them! And he suffered with them. That was good.

  Yes, they had frightened him at first, frightened him so much he hadn’t dared leave the house. But he’d found the answer in locking himself away, keeping away from places where accidents could so easily happen, keeping away from people who could do him harm. He had written to the company – his company, the company he had created – and told them he would be resting for a while, that he would return as soon as he felt up to it. Well, they had probably been pleased with that; hadn’t they urged him to do so before?

  He smiled, and a snigger escaped from his lips. He clasped a hand to his mouth and looked around warily.

  They had sent someone from the company to see him, but the person had gone away when he hadn’t answered the door. The same person had been back several times, but he’d given up now. They would all give up soon; even the voices. How they had tried, those dead ones. But my will is stronger, so much stronger than theirs. Oh, how frustrated they had become! Fools. Did they think mere apparitions, words, thoughts, could harm me? It was all in the mind, and my mind is stronger than theirs. And more cunning.

  The voices told him someone would come for him; they would send someone. Hah! Did they really think that was enough! He had come, all right – when had it been? Today? Yesterday? All the days had merged into one now. He’d seen the man approaching from his bedroom window; ducked back behind the curtain when the man had looked up. He’d rung the doorbell for ages it seemed, and the man’s persistence had irritated him. Then he’d heard his footsteps going around the side of the house, round to the back. He’d crept downstairs then, stealthily, not making a sound, along the hall, pausing outside the kitchen door to listen for sounds. The man, whoever he was – whoever he had been – was banging on the back door, rattling the handle.

  He’d quietly, ever so quietly, opened the kitchen door and crept in. He could see the man’s dark shadow against the two frosted-glass panels of the back door. The curtains of the windows were drawn, as were all the curtains in the house, so the man was unable to see him. He stood without breathing by the kitchen table as the shadow moved away from the door and suddenly appeared at the window. The shadow defined itself more clearly through the drawn curtains as the figure pressed close to the window outside, trying to peer through the tiniest chink at the curtains’ centre.

  With a start, he realized he’d left the gun upstairs on the bed. It would have been so easy, so satisfying, to put a shot through that window, to see the shadowy image for a brief instant become living flesh before it disappeared from view below the window-sill, torn apart by the blast. But he relaxed and smiled broadly when he saw the bread-knife lying beside the stale loaf on the table. He picked it up and moved against the wall beside the window just as a shadowy hand reached up and slid something thin into the crack between the top and bottom frames. He heard the sharp click as the catch was pushed back.

  The window squealed in protest as it was pushed up and the movement stopped abruptly. It continued rising, this time more slowly, cautiously. The curtains parted and a foot appeared. He noticed the bottom of the shoe was speckled with dried mud as if its owner had spent time trudging through damp fields. He remembered how curious it had been to notice something so trivial when he was about to take the man’s life away.

  A leg followed the foot and his breathing became heavy; so heavy he thought the man might hear. The arm holding the knife suddenly became locked in pain and he almost dropped the weapon. It was part of his illness; the creeping paralysis that came and went, and would eventually remain. The paralysis that had already cost him the muscular control of his eyelids. He reached up with his other hand and grasped the knife, holding it with its sharpened edge upwards. His other arm immediately relaxed and the blood flowed evenly through it once more.

  The man’s head and shoulders appeared through the window now and he stopped, looking straight ahead, staring at the open kitchen door. The intruder suddenly seemed to become aware of his presence, but it was much, much too late. Just at the instant when the head was about to turn and look in his direction, he brought his stiffened left hand down, grabbing at the man’s hair, pulling it up sharply, and, at the same time, pushed the knife past the exposed neck, drawing it back swiftly and deeply through his throat.

  The blood had poured on to the kitchen floor as the man slumped forward, his body dangling limply, caught astride the window-sill. He grabbed the man’s coat and pulled him all the way through.

  He smothered a giggle as he thought of the body downstairs now, propped up in a chair at the kitchen table, for all the world looking as if he had just unwillingly dozed off while enjoying a snack.

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ he asked the empty air mockingly. ‘Is that your messenger? Well, he’s joined you now, hasn’t he?’ He laughed aloud, knowing they hadn’t finished with him ye
t, but almost enjoying the game.

  The mood did not last for long, though. As the night grew more still, the silence almost a sound, and the cold began to bite into him once again, the fear pierced his madness, puncturing the barrier of his insanity with tiny holes that spread, tore, and merged into one large opening. His body succumbed to the creeping paralysis that was part of his illness, and grew rigid, unable to move. Only the eyes stirred, darting from one side to the other, their lids held open by the sticking plaster, the enlarged pupils revealing his despair. It would pass, he knew, but until it did, he was totally helpless.

  He crouched in the darkened room and waited for whatever they might send next.

  16

  The Reverend Biddlestone stirred restlessly in his sleep and his foot kicked out at the empty cup and saucer that lay by the side of the sofa. He woke with a start at the clatter of china on china and for a moment his sluggish mind failed to orientate itself. Sitting upright, he stared at the flames before him, a continuation of his dream. He relaxed with a sigh as the light from the fire revealed the familiar objects and furniture of his own sitting room. He must have dozed off after Mrs McBride, his housekeeper, had left. The dear woman had fussed over him like a mother hen, building up the fire, bringing him tea and two of her delicious homemade scones, and fluffing up the cushions, propping him up comfortably. He must have dozed off after she’d left, the heat from the blazing fire inducing his exhaustion.

  He couldn’t have slept for long, for the fire was still in full flame. Yet strangely, the heat had gone from it and the room was unpleasantly cold. He could even see the vapour from his mouth as he breathed out. How strange. And the dream had been so terrible. It had been the night of the crash again and he had found himself walking amongst the victims, administering the Last Rites. This time, however, the field was burning and he had walked through the flames to the maimed and injured, blessing and comforting them. And all the victims had still been alive, suffering terribly, but crying out for compassion; for forgiveness.

  He shuddered at the memory. Those poor, unfortunate souls. He was sure of one thing: many had not yet found peace. The ‘thing’ he had seen in his church: it had been purely the manifestation of a soul in torment. The horror of its features had only been in his own mind; the evil it had exuded was only his own fear. The dream had told him this, for the flames represented their torment, and that torment was still going on for them. They had pleaded for release from their purgatory, and he would help them find that release by prayer.

  The vicar didn’t know what drew his eyes to the window at that moment, but the sight of the small, white face looking through the glass did not startle him as much as it should have. It was almost as though he had been expecting it.

  He rose from the sofa, the clatter of the cup and saucer he had already knocked over once causing him to look down sharply. When he raised his eyes again towards the window, the face had gone. He moved over to it swiftly and pressed close against the black window pane, shielding his eyes from the reflection of the fire. His breath on the pane momentarily blurred his vision and he quickly wiped a hand across it, then held his breath.

  Out there in the dark, at the bottom of his garden, a tiny figure waited. It looked like a child, and appeared to be holding something white in its arms. He tapped on the window and beckoned for the child to come forward. The little figure remained where it was, however, unmoving.

  The vicar straightened up and hastily left the room, making for the back door. By the time he had unlocked and swung it open, the child had gone. He stood there for several seconds, searching the darkness, oblivious to the coldness of the night. Stepping on to the garden path, he walked along its length, careful not to stray on to the frozen flower beds. He stopped near the hedge at the back and looked over it; he could see the wreckage of the plane in the adjacent field lit up by two small lamps, twin beacons in the night. He turned in despair and his heart jumped as he saw the pale, spectral figure near the side of the house walking away from him. He hurried after it, but the figure disappeared into the opening that led to the church. He, too, followed through the gap and stopped once again to look around for the child.

  He saw her not far away, waiting for him, near enough for him to tell it was the figure of a little girl, aged about six or seven – certainly no more. There had been several children involved in the disaster, of course, but he remembered reading of a child who was accompanying her novelist mother, a little girl aged six. What had been her name? He couldn’t remember. But he knew her body had never been recovered; or at least, never enough of it to be recognizable. Could this be the ghost of the poor little creature, wandering lost around the fields, a tiny soul searching for its mother? He reached a pitying hand towards her but she moved away along the path, her back towards him, never once looking round to see if he followed.

  The Reverend Biddlestone did follow her, his anguish for a forgotten soul dismissing any fears he might have had. She disappeared into the porch that stood at the side of the church, the small entrance he usually used during the week. He rushed forward, knowing that the door would be locked, that she would be trapped inside the porch. But when he reached it and stopped at the entrance, breathing sharply at the sudden exertion, he saw the door to the church was open and a flickering light was shining through from within.

  His footsteps became leaden as he was irresistibly drawn towards the opening, towards the unsteady light. Now the old fear was returning. Now, when it was too late, the trepidation coursed through him.

  As he climbed the few steps leading into the open doorway, he saw the light come from burning candles, their flames sending thin spirals of black smoke into the air, filling the church with acrid, waxy fumes. Their combined glow failed miserably to brighten the vast interior and shadows dominated the long nave; the chancel and small lady chapel were in total darkness. The vicar moved uncertainly into the church, wanted to turn and flee, but was unwillingly drawn forward. The girl knelt at the altar, the doll she had clasped to her chest now dangling loosely on the ground, held by a limp arm. Filled with grief he stepped forward towards her, both arms raised compassionately. ‘Let me help you, child,’ he said pityingly.

  But something else moved from out of the shadows before he reached her. Something blackened; something that chuckled hideously.

  The sickening smell of burnt flesh now filled his nostrils, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his arms still held outstretched. He looked into that same charred face, those same blackened holes that should have held eyes, that same wide grinning cavern of a mouth, containing only a thin sliver of brittle, crispy flesh – the remnants of a tongue; the burnt remains of the corpse he’d seen in the church the day before.

  The Reverend Biddlestone sank to his knees in horror. Tiny sounds came from his mouth as he opened and closed it, desperately trying to scream, to call out – anything to release the dreadful tension that was building up inside him. He tore his eyes from the charred form and looked piteously at the girl. Surely she would help him; give him the strength to flee from this abhorrent thing? As she twisted her small body to look at him, he saw that the dress she wore hung loosely around her in scorched tatters. And there was no sympathy in her expression, for she had no face. But he heard her giggle and her shoulders shrugged with mirth, only the sound came from the mocking lips of the doll lying by her side. Its plastic face was buckled and burnt, but its eyes, large and round, stared at him with a magnetic intensity; the little girl’s giggles made it almost a living thing.

  Other black shapes were emerging from the shadows, some dragging themselves because their limbs were missing. Their voices echoed around the stone walls of the church, low murmurings, almost whispers. They advanced on him slowly, down the aisles, through the rows of pews. So many.

  He drew back and, as he did so, he fell on his side. The figure on the altar, the one closest to the creature that had been a child, came nearer and leant forward, the choking smell of its burnt flesh causing t
he vicar to retch violently.

  ‘Well, Man of God, have you come to save us?’ The voice was low, the words hissed out, forced through scorched vocal cords. It made the laughter that followed sound even more malevolent.

  The vicar tried to crawl away from the child, but his limbs would not obey. The shapes had gathered around now and stared down at him, many with sightless eyes. The small girl pushed through them, clutching the doll, its eyes seeing for her.

  ‘Is this the one?’ he heard one of them say. ‘No,’ another whispered, ‘not this one.’

  He saw details of them now, so many sickening details: sparse clumps of scorched hair clinging to their bare scalps; lips burnt away to reveal grinning, blackened teeth; hands that bore no fingers; bodies that were torn wide open, exposing innards alive with crawling things.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven, help me!’ he managed to choke. And then his voice rose to a scream: ‘Help me!’

  He turned on to his stomach and raised his knees so they were under him. Pushing his face down on to the cold stone floor, he covered his cheeks and ears with his arms. Whimpering, his tears leaving a damp trail on the floor, he shuffled his body forward, pushing through the legs of the surrounding obscenities, an inch at a time; he had no strength, no courage, to raise himself and walk through them. And all the time they mocked him, prodded him with their blackened finger stubs, and laughed at his craven figure. Their sounds rang through his head, filled the church, taunted him. He now clasped his hands to his ears and raised his head, his eyes pressed tightly shut. He lifted himself up and, crouched on his knees, raised his face towards the high ceiling. ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No!’

  The voices stopped. All movement stopped. Slowly, he opened his eyes and lowered his face. They were all turned towards the door, staring at the man standing in the entrance.