Laura: [O.B.] Well it’s funny you should say that, Damien, because I think I can see the armored car coming now. Yes, yes, it’s definitely them. I’m going to see if I can have a word with them before they go in.
Damien: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Well we’ll leave it there for the moment, but we’ll go straight back to Laura if she manages to get any of the team aside for a moment for a quick chat. (turns to Emma) Dr. Peter Chesney—is he the same one we had on the program last year?
Emma: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Yes Damien, he is. If you recall at the time he and his team had just been performing the most exhaustive investigation ever into Brigham Priory.
Damien: [M.S. CAMERA 2] Another famous haunted location, and as he’s well known to be a stickler for being in charge of his investigations, I’m guessing he must think All Hallows Church might be even more haunted than Brigham to be willing to go in there under someone else’s rules.
Emma: [M.S. CAMERA 1] Well we can ask Laura more about this if she comes back on. But I read in the paper this morning that access to All Hallows has been refused to any and all parapsychological research teams for the last twenty years. The Catholic Church still claims ownership for it and, well, with its history, I’m guessing they wouldn’t want to be thought responsible for any more deaths.
Damien: [C.U. CAMERA 2] Wait . . . Laura’s coming back on. Can you hear me, Laura?
Laura: [O.B.] Yes Damien, hi! I can just about hear you. I haven’t got much else to tell you, I’m afraid. We didn’t get much of a look-in. The van pulled up outside the church—in fact, it’s still here and you can probably see it behind me (she stands slightly to one side as the cameraman zooms past her)—the van pulled up, the team stepped out of the back and were immediately kept away from the rest of the press by the News of Britain’s security team. These are the people who will be keeping a round the clock watch on the church during the next four days. (pull back to reveal Laura) Anyway, this team allowed News of Britain photographers to take a couple of group photos and then they were quickly ushered inside the church, where we understand they are now going to remain. We all know the newspaper has secured exclusive rights to this story, but it’s still a bit disappointing that we didn’t get to talk to any of the team members before they began their mission.
Emma: [C.U. CAMERA 1] Never mind, Laura, I’m sure you did your best.
Damien: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Best get out of there before they stir up any spooks, Laura!
Laura: [O.B.] Yes, I will, don’t worry. Bye!
Emma: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Bye!
Damien: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] Bye! We’ll take a short break now, but be sure to join us on our return when our resident chef, Marjorie Marsden, will be giving us advice on how to cope with those last minute Christmas cooking nightmares . . .
Emma: [2-SHOT CAMERA 3] . . . and I’ll be talking to soap opera heartthrob Danny Styler about what it was like to come out of the closet. We’ll see you soon!
[SOUND ONLY OFF-AIR RECORDING DURING COMMERCIAL BREAK]
Damien: Didn’t someone die during that Chesney guy’s last ghost-hunting thing?
Emma: Two people, actually. That’s why we had him on—he’d just been found not guilty of the manslaughter charge. Only he and one other person crawled out of the place alive, and Marion Peters is going to be in an asylum for the rest of her life. (the rasping sound of a cigarette lighter being used) Thanks. Mind you, if he wants to go back into one of those sorts of places he must be pretty mad himself.
Damien: Pretty stupid as well.
Emma: You mean he’s pushing his luck? He’s survived one battle with ghosts and now he’s just going back for more?
Damien: I mean if ghosts really existed, wouldn’t his team members be haunting him up the arse by now? Some people never learn.
Emma: You don’t believe, then?
Damien: No, it’s all bollocks. All done to get attention, which is exactly what’s going on here. I didn’t expect the News of Britain lot to be such a bunch of bastards they wouldn’t let us get a look in, but there you go. No such things as ghosts, and no bloody point to this other than to sell papers. That’s why they held that bloody competition as well.
Emma: Shit! We didn’t mention the competition winners!
Damien: Yes you did—I remember you saying. It was on the autocue.
Emma: But I didn’t mention their names or ask Laura about them! I’ll probably get it in the neck from Simon about not exploiting the public interest side of things . . .
Damien: In case you hadn’t noticed, we were overrunning as it was. Our dear producer had been giving me the “Cut to a Break” signal for the last thirty seconds. Don’t worry—we went on about that old bollocks for long enough. If people want to know more about the two luckless idiots who’ve won themselves four nights in a freezing cold church just before Christmas it’s all in the article the News of Britain published yesterday. Now put that cigarette out—we’re back on in ten seconds.
[END OF TRANSCRIPT]
News of Britain, Wednesday December 21, 1994
SPOOKY SUCCESS!!!
THE ANSWERS ARE IN AND THE DECISION HAS BEEN MADE!
We’d like to thank each and every News of Britain reader who entered our shivery competition to Win Four Nights in the Most Haunted Place Ever!
A spook-tastic 83,256 of you couldn’t wait to get your hands on some real live ghostly action, and got phoning and writing to let us know the answer to our ghost-tastic trivia question.
But there can only be one winner—In OTHER newspapers, that is!
Because your super-reading, great value News of Britain made sure there were TWO!
TWO, that’s right, TWO lucky winners will be joining the News of Britain’s Paranormal Research Team when they enter All Hallows Church tomorrow. They’ll be there right alongside our team of experts as they uncover the unknown, probe the paranormal, and examine the eerie.
And our winners are: Paul Hale, 22, an unemployed bricklayer from South London, and Veronica “Ronnie” Quesnel, 44, who is a professional medium and spiritualist in her spare time.
Paul entered our competition on a dare from his mates but says he’s always liked scary movies. His favorite horror film is A Nightmare on Elm Street, which he first saw on home video when he was thirteen. Not sure what the censors would have to say about that, Paul, but we promise we’ll keep quiet. Let’s hope Freddy’s not waiting for you in All Hallows Church!
Ronnie told us she’s been into paranormal and ghostly activity for as long as she can remember, and has seen many strange things during her lifetime. Let’s hope the best is yet to come for Ronnie over the next few days! “My only regret,” she tells the NoB, “is that my cats won’t be able to come with me. They’re my lifeline to the cosmic universe, my companions and soul mates. I have proof that some of them are the reincarnations of those with past lives and they have often aided me in detecting places with abnormal psychic activity.”
Unfortunately the rules have stipulated that no animals are to be allowed into All Hallows for the period of this current study. But your ever-caring News of Britain has ensured that all of Ronnie’s pets will be looked after until her safe return. We’re sure you’ll join us in wishing Paul and Ronnie, and the rest of the team, the very best of luck as they prepare to take on the WORLD OF THE WEIRD!!!
NINE
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 11:03 A.M.
THE FIRST DAY.
Bob Chambers paused, the nib of his pen still poised over the fresh creamy paper of page one of his notebook. He was tempted to add Hour One, and for that matter Minute One as well. After all, they had only just arrived and, while he had no intention of documenting everything that happened during the next four days (despite Washington instructing him to do just that), it was a way of preventing the others from bothering him for the moment. And he needed that—just a few moments to himself so he could get used to the place.
Who was he kidding? He leaned back in his seat in the rearmost pew and looked aroun
d him. He could probably spend days here and not get used to the interior of All Hallows Church, but it was a passable distraction while the others explored their new surroundings.
The notebook—two hundred pages of blank letter-sized vellum bound between two stiff boards beautifully covered in pale blue marbling with slick navy leather down the spine—had been a gift several years ago from a grateful student. It was one of the few personal possessions he had brought with him.
The rest of his stuff included medical supplies. He had been asked to bring whatever he thought might be useful and so he had included a first aid kit, a few drugs (mainly antibiotics and painkillers) and a few small items of surgical equipment (a scalpel and some sutures) because he wouldn’t have been happy going to a place like this without them. Other than that there were a few changes of clothes and other personal items packed into the heavy black Samsonite suitcase that was presently still standing near the main door, along with everyone else’s bags.
Looking at what some of the others had with them, he was grateful that was all he had needed to bring along. At least he hadn’t required half a library’s worth of ancient-looking volumes on the history of this place from Roman times up to now, but that was what Dr. Rosalie Cruttenden had insisted on having brought in here. At the moment they were still in tea chests, stacked at the back of the church just to the right of the font. The lecturer was currently prizing open her second crate with gusto, using the crowbar that, curiously, Father Traynor had brought with him.
That had been the first odd thing. The rest of them had met at the News of Britain offices in Fleet Street earlier that morning and been assured that everything they had asked for had been delivered to the church over the preceding three days. They were then driven to the location in the back of a van that smelled as if its last cargo had been overripe pears; and when they had finally been allowed to emerge into the chill light of dawn, the security the paper had seen fit to employ had shielded them from the mass of journalists gathered in anticipation of getting a few words. Exclusive obviously meant exclusive to the News of Britain. Chambers had felt sorry for the pretty girl with the Wake Up Britain! microphone who had almost had to be pushed out of the way to let them through the gates. In many ways, however, it had been a relief. He couldn’t think of anything to have said to them anyway, other than that he thought the whole thing was a ridiculous idea and that he felt stupid for having agreed to it.
He wasn’t going to put that in his journal. He was, however, going to make a point of noting that the chain on the gates had looked almost melted, that the gates themselves had not so much been pushed open to allow them entry as pulled apart, and that the doors to the church had opened at their touch as if the hinges had been well-oiled.
But the strangest thing of all had been Father Michael Traynor, standing there in the aisle to welcome them.
“I thought no one was supposed to be in here.” Karen had looked annoyed until the pale-looking priest had explained who he was, and even then she hadn’t been entirely happy.
“My Cardinal thought it only right that I be here to welcome you,” Father Michael had replied, “and to ensure that this building which, after all, is still God’s house, was fit for you to enter.”
“I thought the blokes who brought the stuff in and connected up the electrics were supposed to do that.” Paul Hale, thin and lanky, his spiky white hair suggestive of a rockabilly style that had been trimmed back for the occasion, was obviously picking up on the unhappy vibes of the woman standing next to him.
“Oh, they did, before vacating the premises as quickly as they could.” Father Traynor had smiled with the obsequiousness of a politician who hopes his latest misdemeanor will remain undiscovered. “But nevertheless the Catholic Church felt it was its duty to ensure its representative in this party was the first to be here.”
Karen hadn’t been happy, but instead of protesting further she had suggested that, as Father Traynor presumably knew the layout of the place, he show them around. The priest had readily agreed to this, and that was what most of them were preparing to do now. Dr. Cruttenden had been too anxious to ensure her books had arrived safely, and had elected to stay behind. Chambers had found a pew at the back of the church that looked safe to sit on, and had flipped open the brown leather briefcase he always carried with him. It usually contained his latest research papers and data, but now it held a couple of novels and the journal. With nothing better to do while he waited for the guided tour, he had started to write.
On the pew opposite sat Karen, speaking quietly into a Dictaphone. Her luggage had consisted mainly of cassette tapes, notebooks, and journals, plus more AA batteries than he had ever seen in his life.
“If you’d ever been in the middle of a civil war and run out you’d understand,” she had said, to which he had nodded politely.
He still found it difficult to believe she had wanted him to come, and had in fact asked for him by name. Once they had learned of the proposed “Ghost Hunt” Washington had insisted that, as their man on the spot, Chambers had to be a part of it. Just as he had been about to pick up the phone, Karen had called him.
“I read that story of yours, that one about the dreaming god that rises up out of the sea,” she said.
“And?”
“And I don’t believe a word of it. But we need someone with medical qualifications to come into All Hallows with us, and you’re the least boring doctor I know. Besides, while you might be crazy I think you’re probably harmless.”
“Appearances can be deceptive,” he replied. “But I promise to be on my best behavior.”
He was surprised she had asked Dr. Cruttenden to come along as well, and that the Oxford University lecturer had agreed. Karen later told him that Dr. Cruttenden had initially refused, but after she had realized they would be going in with or without her, she had relented, saying she would rather be in the thick of history in the making, being able to do something about it, rather than simply suffering its aftermath.
Chambers hadn’t actually wanted to go near the place, despite the insistence of his department, and over drinks in a bar a few days before they were set to leave he had told Karen as much.
“But aren’t the nightmares back?” she had asked.
They were.
“And aren’t they worse than ever?”
That was true too. Since getting back from Oxford, every night had been a journey to a hellish otherworld, where the undead roamed and the living fell victim to them. All except him, that was. Powerless to do anything, Chambers’s dream-self had been forced to stand by impotently while populations had been ravaged and turned into more of the insatiable, ever-consuming zombie horde. He had seen cemeteries turned into cathedrals, and cities into tombs, and he had not been able to do a thing about it. If only agent Randolph Carter was still around, he thought to himself. He would have known what to do.
No, he hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near All Hallows, but he knew he had to. If what he was being shown during the hours of darkness was some dreadful vision of what was to come, and if All Hallows Church was something to do with that, then even though it was the last place in the world he wanted to be, he had to be there.
The others didn’t seem to have been similarly affected, although Father Traynor had looked distracted and anemic in the light from the floodlight that had been positioned halfway up the aisle on the left-hand side. Paul Hale had seemed excited by all the press attention while the other winner, Ronnie Quesnel, had said very little so far. She had arrived in a flurry of voluminous gypsy skirts (which would certainly keep her warm, Karen had remarked in the van) and equally voluminous curly brown hair. Her voice had so far made less noise than the many beads around her neck and the bangles on her wrists. Right now she was drifting up and down the aisle, her face upturned to the cracked and broken ribbed vaulting of the ceiling. Every now and then she would stop, spin around daintily on one toe, and begin walking in the opposite direction.
She had alread
y bumped into Peter Chesney twice.
He called himself Dr. Peter Chesney, but when Chambers had asked him at which university he had obtained his doctorate, Chesney had changed the subject. Despite pressing him on it for the short spell they were in the back of the van, Chambers was still none the wiser as to whether Chesney’s doctorate was scientific, medical, or if it had been scribbled on the back of a cereal box and sent to him in the mail. Chambers was well aware that there were a number of disreputable institutions willing to cash checks for middling amounts of money and dole out a degree or two to those who wished to live under the delusion that the certificate they now had framed on their wall somehow made them better than those to whom they showed it. The fact that the very opposite was the case was something Chambers hoped he would be able to keep from announcing. At least until the last day, he thought with a smile.
Chesney was not happy, and Ronnie repeatedly bumping into him had not helped to improve his mood. Apparently the equipment he had asked to be delivered wasn’t working properly.
“Have you ever seen such incompetence?” he snarled to nobody in particular as he waved around two pieces of tubular aluminum that until recently were probably just one, judging by the jagged ends. “How am I supposed to construct my psychic detector now?”
“I have some Scotch tape in my bag.” Ronnie’s voice was soft and deep, as if she had never had to speak above a whisper in her entire life. “If that would help.”
“A soldering iron would help,” Chesney replied, “I don’t suppose you’ve got one of those in that carpet bag of yours?”
“Father Traynor might.” Paul diverted the parapsychologist’s attention. “After all, he had that crowbar, and a whole load of other stuff.”
That was enough to send Chesney scurrying off toward the vestry as Karen came over, obviously with the intention of chatting.
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