The Lovecraft Squad

by John Llewellyn Probert

  Father Traynor spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of wet, long-dead flesh. But no matter how hard he tried, and how raucously he coughed, the actions just made the taste more intense.

  What was happening?

  He took a step out from the shadow cast by the steeple. Then another, and another.

  If he craned his neck he could see the moon above him now, a distorted clown’s face of painted silver, smeared by the inky darkness of a cloud covering its lower half, like a surgical mask for the undead. The moon, too, held a greenish tinge, as if the sky itself was wasted and sick.

  He must be dreaming.

  Then wake up! he told himself, running his hands over his face in the hope that when he uncovered his eyes again the world would be back to normal.

  Instead, it was worse.

  Ahead of him stretched the cemetery, the gravestones leering at him through the mist, seemingly jostling each other in their efforts to move, to get closer to him, to smother him with stone, encase him in granite and bury him alive beneath engraved sarcophagi, their epitaphs to those long gone from this world marking the passing of many others, but not him. Never him. Even if someone were eventually to find his body, crushed beyond recognition, flattened into the mud by the weight of a hundred of them, he would be unrecognizable, denied the Christian burial he needed and banished forever to spend eternity in a purgatory somewhere like this.

  Somewhere like this.

  He coughed again, the rancid taste in his mouth and nostrils even stronger now. A thought struck him, one so awful in its implication that he barely dared give it further consideration. And yet it was impossible not to. Was that what had already happened? Had that fall killed him? Had he fractured his skull? Broken his neck? Was his body in an ambulance right now, hapless paramedics working frantically to bring him back, pushing air into his lungs, trying to get his heart pumping?

  A noise distracted him up ahead, close to the stunted, twisted tree he had seen on his way in. A grating, jarring noise, like two heavy surfaces grinding against one another.

  Like the sound of stone against stone.

  The gravestones seemed nearer now. In fact, it was almost as if they were moving, shifting slowly from side to side.

  Or were being shifted by what was beneath them.

  Panic gripped him and he was rooted to the spot. He rubbed his eyes but that only made things worse because it confirmed that this was no optical illusion. The gravestones were being moved, were being pushed up from below. Before his terrified gaze, to his left a monolith ten feet tall fell over with a muffled thump, revealing dirt-stained fingertips clawing at the air, ragged nails chipped and torn from the effort of scrabbling at the imprisoning stone. Elsewhere, smaller upright markers were being pushed until they toppled, while their flatter, broader counterparts were being lifted aside. In the middle distance, the memorial marker to a family of four was being raised sufficiently high so that Traynor could see three pairs of rotting adult hands, and one pair of tiny infant hands, attempting to work their way out.

  With infinite slowness, the dead began to rise, bringing with them the accoutrements of the long-deceased. Ragged, hairless corpses pulled themselves free of the crumbling earth, their skulls gleaming in the unearthly greenish light. Scraps of muscle and clothing still adhered to the limbs of some and the ribcages of others, but the occupants of this graveyard had been here a long time and there was very little left that was not bone. Despite this, maggots tumbled from every orifice—from eyeless sockets, nasal cavities, from ear canals and mouths from which the lower jaw had long been dislocated and lost. Earthworms disturbed from their slumber wriggled free from these feeders of flesh, dropping in long, undulating coils to the ground and seeking the darkness from which they had been so rudely disturbed. Beetles fell with them, shiny black jewels that scuttled and vanished as the moonlight struck them.

  Traynor tried to move, but fear held him in its grip as each and every burial plot gave birth to a twitching, crumbling creature. Some were missing arms, others legs. The final corpse to clamber forth was a semi-humanoid remnant of a human being that possessed neither arms nor legs. Once it had finally burrowed its way through the surface and, almost free of its prison of earth, toppled to one side to remain half-in, half-out of the place that had been intended to contain it forever, Father Traynor found himself faced with over a hundred of the undead.

  Who then, as one, turned to look at him.

  There was a horrible creaking noise as they did so, the sound of a hundred skulls grinding against a hundred dry vertebrae, all support and lubrication of the neck joint long since gone, leaving a treacherous and painful-sounding balancing act.

  Father Traynor tried again to lift a foot, but it was useless.

  The dead remained where they were.

  Something else was happening now, though. As well as spiders, beetles, and countless wriggling things with no legs at all, something else was falling from the rotting corpses, something so fine as to resemble carmine dust in the moonlight.

  But dust did not have a life of its own.

  Dust did not crawl; dust did not jump.

  Dust did not hop with purpose toward the spot on which Father Traynor was rooted.

  Fleas.

  Thousands of them.

  Like a storm of crimson snow, a swirling mass of tiny bodies bounded toward him, gaining numbers as it did so. And now the maggots and worms and other crawling creatures were following in the wake of this living tempest, this pestilential swarm that had been buried for centuries and had only now been brought to the surface.

  As one they jumped, as one they crawled, as one they squirmed. Soon it was difficult to tell the individual bodies apart as they came, from left and right and far in the distance, congregating before the terrified priest. Congregating, and coming to a halt.

  As more of them arrived, they jumped and crawled on top of those already there. Soon a teetering pile of writhing parasites stood before Traynor—two feet of squirming, wriggling creatures, none of whom showed any desire to leave the companionship of their pestilent brethren.

  Three feet.

  Four.

  Now the mound of seething activity was as high as Traynor’s chin and still it grew, beetles upon grubs, spiders crowned with fleas, maggots entwined with earthworms. Still the mound grew.

  And began to take on a shape.

  Before Father Traynor’s disbelieving gaze the mass of living horror not two feet away from him began to organize itself. A pair of outpouchings two thirds of the way up became rudimentary arms. The lower half of the mound split in two, the gap between giving it the appearance of shimmering legs. At the top, a protuberance swiftly rounded itself into a head that stretched itself a little lengthways before developing a broad mouth, a Roman nose, broad-set eyes.

  And this arthropodal homunculus was not yet finished. The creatures were now reconstituting themselves so that it seemed that the figure standing before Father Traynor was wearing clothes. Not modern-day clothes, however. The man before him appeared to be clad in garments perhaps two hundred years old or more. A greatcoat with heavy cuffs cut to hang open and reveal the buttons of the waistcoat beneath. Was it his imagination or were the maggots coiling at his wrists intended to resemble lace cuffs and, on his head, not hair, but worms coiled into the semblance of a Regency wig?

  Father Traynor knew he had to be dreaming now, or dead, or both. Even so, nothing prepared him for when the ungodly apparition before him opened its mouth and began to speak.

  “You transgress.”

  Its voice sounded like something that had been underwater for a long time, the larynx folded in on itself, the vocal cords gone to rot.

  Traynor coughed and tried to say something himself. Something apologetic, something humble, but the words would not come.

  “Why are you here?”

  Traynor tried again, and failed again, to speak.

  The thing (he could not think of it as a man) took one step forward. It was
a weird, ethereal, shimmering movement, catalyzed by the creatures of the earth, but it was obvious now that they were slaves to this monster’s will.

  “I asked you a question, sir.”

  The last word was spat out, along with a centipede that dribbled over the thing’s lower lip and scuttled away to contribute to some lower part of its anatomy.

  Struggling, almost choking, Traynor finally found his voice, although it was as if he had little control over the words that finally emerged from between his lips.

  “There are others coming . . . four days . . . inside the church . . . I must . . . protect.”

  “Oh, must you indeed?” The thing took another step forward. Now it was so close he could see the eyes—tiny black ladybird-like beetles balancing on top of broader, blue-shelled relatives. The eyelashes were the spiny limbs of harvestmen, the lids rolled maggots that twitched and squirmed to give the semblance of blinking.

  “Tell me . . . have they yet found the scrolls?”

  Traynor, too paralyzed with fear to shake his head, or shrug, or do anything, tried once more to find words.

  “I . . . don’t . . . know.”

  The thing of worms and fleas appeared to be thinking for a moment.

  “They must have,” it said, eventually. “Which means the heavens are almost aligned. All this waiting and soon the time will be upon us again.” The thing looked him up and down, the movement of its head causing a handful of tiny white larvae to become dislodged from its crown and go tumbling to the ground. They rapidly made their way back to the thing’s feet. “You are a minister? Of the Catholic faith?”

  It was a Herculean effort, but the priest was finally able to summon the strength to nod.

  “Excellent!” The thing raised an arm. Worms and beetles fell as a rudimentary finger pointed over Traynor’s shoulder. “I have need of a representative in there, someone who can ensure that nothing untoward is disturbed . . . until the time is right.” Its centipede lips stretched into what passed for a smile. “Congratulations. I do so appreciate a willing volunteer.”

  The outstretched hand fell to Traynor’s shoulder. At its touch, the fingers became detached, and the earwigs that had formed them began roaming over the material of his black priest’s gown, seeking ways to penetrate beneath the material and be one with his flesh. One found its way in down his neck, another between buttons. Still more made their way down his sleeve and up the arm beneath. A piercing agony seared his flesh as each of the creatures made contact with his skin, their hooked legs burrowing into the tissue, burying themselves beneath the subcutaneous fat, hooking onto his nerves and causing almost unendurable pain.

  “Remember . . .” said the thing, already coming apart now that its job was done. “. . . I shall be watching you.”

  Father Traynor fell to his knees, his arms over his head. There was nothing he could do but scream and scream and scream.

  He was still screaming when he woke up.

  [TRANSCRIPT OF WAKE UP BRITAIN!, BROADCAST LIVE AT 8:03 A.M. ON THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1994, PRESENTED BY DAMIEN CHILDS AND EMMA BYFIELD]

  Damien Childs: [M.S. CAMERA 2] And that was Sam with the weather. Nice to know it’s not going to be too chilly over the Christmas period.

  Emma Byfield: [M.S. CAMERA 3] But I wanted snow! I think we all want snow at Christmas really, don’t we? [C.U. Camera 1] But seven people in particular are probably going to feel very relieved that the weather over the next few days is going to be mild, although who knows if that’s going to keep the ghosts away? [back to Camera 3] All Hallows Church in Blackheath, London, has long been considered a place of spooky happenings and ghostly sightings. Many local people believe it to be haunted and now, in one of the most in-depth and prolonged paranormal investigations ever, a team of seven experts is going to spend the next four days and nights locked inside the church in the hope they get to witness some demonic goings-on.

  Damien: [C.U. CAMERA 2] I’m not sure if they’re going to be hoping for ghosts or just be relieved when they don’t find any. But it’s not strictly seven experts, is it, Emma?

  Emma: [C.U. CAMERA 1] No Damien, that’s right. Two of the group are the lucky winners of a competition run by the newspaper the News of Britain to spend four days in the most haunted place in the country! I wonder if they’re regretting their choice now?

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Well let’s see, shall we? Laura Sprackling, our girl on the scene, is outside All Hallows Church right now. Laura, can you hear us?

  Laura Sprackling: [O.B.] Hi Damien. Well, despite what Sam said, it’s actually freezing out here and you can probably see that it’s quite blowy as well. I’m here with newspaper reporters, radio broadcasters, and others to give the team of ghost hunters organized by the News of Britain a good send off and wish them the very best in their investigations over the next few days!

  Emma: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Are they not there yet, Laura?

  Laura: [O.B.] Ah, not just yet. We understand they’re being brought by armored car from the News of Britain offices where they have undergone rigorous checks to ensure they aren’t bringing anything with them other than approved equipment. There really has been every effort made to ensure that this is a genuine and scientific investigation.

  Damien: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] So there’s no one in the church at the moment?

  Laura: [O.B.] We understand that one of the team is already inside. A Father Michael Traynor, who is to be the representative of the Catholic Church in this project. Older viewers may remember that All Hallows used to be a place of Catholic worship until it was closed down in the 1970s. Father Traynor is there by kind permission of Westminster Cathedral, which has been kind enough to loan the project his services so that there is at least one person who knows their way around the church.

  Emma: [M.S. CAMERA 1] And keep a Godly eye on everyone?

  Laura: [O.B.] That’s right, Emma. Because they want as few people in there as possible, he’s checking right now that the electricity provided works, and that there are enough supplies for the four days. When he’s happy, and the others have got here, he’ll be the one to give the all-clear that they can go in.

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Laura, did they have to get special permission from the electricity company to get the power up and running again? If it’s been empty for so long—does anything still work in there?

  Laura: [O.B.] I asked about that earlier. To be completely safe they’re not going to be relying on any external source of power. A generator has been set up in the basement, and I understand lighting will be provided by freestanding lights that have been set up throughout the building—floodlights for the larger areas and smaller lamps for more intimate places. It will also power the cooker and the microwave that have been installed, and cables have been run through the building to power electric points so they can boil a kettle.

  Emma: [M.S. CAMERA 1] They’ll be able to offer the ghosts a cup of tea, then Laura?

  Laura (laughing): [O.B.] Oh yes, no shortage of tea or coffee. Alcohol will be a strict no-no, of course.

  Damien: [C.U. CAMERA 2] They’ve got water, though?

  Laura: [O.B.] The plumbing still works and there’s a kitchen in the undercroft so, yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  Emma: [M.S. CAMERA 1] Damien won’t have thought about this because he’s a man but, how are they all going to keep clean? It’s not as if these old churches came with all mod-cons bathrooms. Have they got baths and showers?

  Laura: [O.B.] No baths, I’m afraid Emma, but if they go downstairs to the undercroft they’ll find showers have been set up by plumbing directly into the pipes that run underground. Apparently they’re not the most luxurious, but they’ll do the job.

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Mixed showering, then?

  Laura: [O.B.] Is that all you can think about? They’re individual cubicles separated by opaque Perspex partitions, so there should be no way you can see what your neighbor’s up to.

  Emma: [C.U. CAMERA 1] What about communication with th
e outside world?

  Laura: [O.B.] Well that’s perhaps the most controversial part of all of this. For the entire period that they are in there, no one is going to be permitted contact with anyone on the outside. The church has no telephone, and the team is not being allowed walkie-talkies.

  Damien: [C.U. CAMERA 2] Why not?

  Laura: [O.B.] Well, according to Dr. Peter Chesney, the parapsychology expert on the team, the bandwidth that these radios work on can interfere with the equipment he is bringing in, so he has personally insisted that they not be used.

  Emma: [C.U. CAMERA 1] So what happens if there’s a disaster?

  Laura (pointing behind her): [O.B.] I don’t know if you can see from where you’re watching, but if you look at the main entrance to the church a security system has been set up to the left of the door. There’s a panic button inside the building, and if there’s any concern from any of the inmates they can push that. It will set off the alarm by the door, lights will flash, and whoever is on duty out here will be able to go in and get them.

  Emma: [C.U. CAMERA 1] Only in the event of an emergency, though?

  Laura: [O.B.] That’s the idea, yes.

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Inmates.

  Laura: [O.B.] I’m sorry?

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] You just called them inmates. Asylum or prison?

  Laura (slightly flustered): [O.B.] Er . . . let’s hope neither, shall we?

  Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Sorry Laura, just a little joke. Is there any sign of them yet?