Each night, unknown to Bob, Eric Cain stood among the blackthorn, conjuring forth the wind, which then came howling through the valley. As it did so, Bob's sleep would become troubled. He dreamed that the cottage was no longer a safe haven. Although the windows were shut and the doors were locked, there was something terrible already in there with him. In his dream, the lights would dim and become feeble, flickering phantoms, serving only to accentuate the deep shadows. The sense of being watched by something with a deadly purpose intensified.
That third evening, Bob went to bed, nervously looking around and behind him as he climbed the stairs and made his way along the short corridor to the bedroom. He slunk into the room, closed the door firmly behind him and got into bed. He reached out and switched off the lamp. Immediately, he wished that he hadn't, but he'd be damned if he was going to switch it on again and admit to being a coward. So instead he lay there and cowered, convinced that staring eyes were fixed upon him in the darkness. Eventually, somehow, he managed to fall asleep.
In the small hours of the morning, Bob awoke with his heart pounding. A feeling of utter, stark terror was upon him and he had to struggle to control his breathing. Finally, the pounding of his racing heart slowed to a less dangerous level, but he was still paralysed with fear, his body gripped with an uncontrollable icy trembling. He could not shake the feeling that there was something dreadful in the room with him, He could hear nothing, and it was too dark to see anything, but his certainty remained. Not only was he not alone, but his visitor was totally inimical to human life. The long minutes ticked away, marked by the painful throbbing of his heartbeat. Sight and sound told him nothing, but his sense of smell was disturbed by a hint of fetor on the verge of awareness, and the hideous cold seemed most unnatural. He dared not move a muscle, let alone reach out to switch on the bedside lamp. He knew that to do so would drive him mad.
So he lay there and counted out the long, painful seconds of the night, afraid that the horror would claim him body and soul if he should succumb to sleep again. He shuddered beneath the certainty of deadly eyes gazing at him. Finally the first pale glimmer of dawn raised the shadows sufficiently to reveal him quite alone in his room.
Bob phoned David Johnson as soon as the hour was decent. He burbled manically into the phone, blurting out his story incoherently. He didn't care if he sounded like a credulous idiot; his earlier determined scepticism had fled in terror in the face of the night's dreadful oppression. Even the clear light of the new day was insufficient to quell his fear. He made himself a pot of tea, splashing some of the hot liquid with trembling hands, and he called in sick to work. Then he sat down in the living room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, waiting for David to arrive.
His friend didn't let him down. Recognising how distraught Bob had sounded on the phone, and how much his tone had changed, David had taken the day off so he could come and see him. He let himself in, tried to hide how concerned he felt when he saw how haggard Bob looked, and sat down in the other armchair before the fire, the one where Carol usually sat. “What's the matter, mate?” he asked gently. “Something must have happened, you sounded very upset on the phone.”
Bob didn't know what to say. There were no fancy words to explain his experience, no easy way of building up to it, no way of making it sound less ridiculous when it was said. He remained silent for a minute or two while David patiently waited, then he simply said, “There was something in my room last night. I woke up and it was there, I didn't dare go back to sleep again.”
“What kind of something?” asked David.
“I don't know,” Bob shrugged. “But it was there. It seemed to be tall, man-sized. It was staring at me, and it hated me. It wanted me dead. I couldn't see it, it was too dark. But I swear, it was there. I could feel its presence. And there was that strange silence, quieter than quiet: the silence you get which isn't true silence, but is somebody trying to stay stock still and make no noise. More silent than silence should be, somebody trying too hard. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think so,” replied David.
Bob looked right into his friend's eyes, his expression resigned and perfectly frank. “And yet, when it became light enough to see, there was nothing there. And I swear there had been, right up until that moment, when I could see that there wasn't. And I also swear they didn't creep out of the room; I was listening too intently. I would have heard, no doubt about it. And yet I swear to you, David: there was something there, and it wanted me to die.” He sighed and lowered his eyes. “I know, I'm crazy. It's all got too much for me: Cain's visit; Carol's accident; hints of witchcraft. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend there was nothing there when I know that there was.” He looked up again, meeting his friend's gaze defiantly. “Well? Aren't you going to call a doctor? That's what I'd do.”
David cleared his throat. “I don't think you're mad, Bob. If you'll recall, I'm the one who said to you that there might be something unnatural going on. I don't know what it is, I just know that things have been seriously weird ever since you asked me to look into the Cain history. So I'm not going to disbelieve your experience, I just don't know how to interpret it. Why don't we go upstairs and check your bedroom together, see how it appears in the light of day?”
Bob shrugged. “Okay, I guess so. It can't do any harm, I suppose.” David could see that his friend was clearly very nervous at the thought of going back upstairs, though. Whatever had happened had unnerved him a lot.
Bob led the way and swung the bedroom door open for David to enter. “Here we are,” he said with false jollity. “Here's the bit where you talk me into believing that I was imagining things after all!”
David walked into the room and immediately knelt down on the carpet, rubbing it with his fingers, a frown on his face. “No, Bob,” he said quietly. “That's not what I'm going to say to you at all. There was definitely someone standing here. Look.”
Bob looked over his friend's shoulder. After a moment, he could see what David was talking about. It was hard to see at first against the background pattern of the carpet, but once he had spotted the first flecks, he was able to quite clearly discern the outlines of two muddy prints of bare feet, positioned facing the bed.
“There are also these,” said David, lifting up a couple of splinters of dark wood from the carpet. “Blackthorn, if I'm not mistaken.”
Relieved to discover that he had not been hallucinating, but frightened by the implications, Bob got dressed and spent the day debating the best course of action with David.
“I didn't hear a sound,” Bob insisted. “I just felt the presence until the light began appearing through the curtains and there was nothing there. But now we see that it had been there. All of the doors and windows were closed. Where did it come from? How did it get in? Where is it now? We changed the locks so that Cain couldn't get access again.”
“Maybe there's some hidden entrance only he knows about,” shrugged David, “passed down through family lore, perhaps? Or maybe it wasn't him at all? I'm only guessing. And why bare feet, muddy with soil?”
“Perhaps it was through the basement!” said Bob. “The walls are stone, but there's just a plain earth floor down there.”
“You have a basement?” said David, surprised. “None of these old Manx cottages have basements! It's unheard of!”
“Well, this one has,” said Bob. “We just use it as a junk room mainly. Come on, we'd better take a look in case he's managed to worm his way in down there somehow.”
The basement was accessed via a small door in the kitchen that David had always assumed contained a storage cupboard. Instead, a steep flight of wooden steps led down into a dark space smelling of damp earth.
“I had a light bulb hung down here,” said Bob, “but mind your step, it's only low wattage and the ceiling is very low.”
He wasn't kidding. As David gingerly followed him down, he had to stoop to avoid striking his head on the beams which supported the ground floor above them. He
had to remain in a crouch as they crept forward into the dim space. The walls were whitewashed plaster, stained with damp and hung with black, dusty cobwebs; the ceiling was plain boards and heavy beams, only five feet six inches or so from the floor; the ground was simply bare earth. No grass or other plants intruded, as the basement was ordinarily pitch black, but it was uncomfortably cold and damp underfoot.
“Look,” said David, pointing. “There are prints. I daresay you and Carol haven't been down here barefoot recently?” He pointed to the clear marks of bare footprints impressed in the chill earth.
“Never,” confirmed Bob. “They lead over to that corner.” The closer they got to the corner, the more the soil bore marks of disturbance, however, till they were unable to discern individual prints or marks any more.”
“Let's see if there's any way in here from outside,” suggested David. They both explored the small basement, but it only took them a couple of minutes to confirm that the walls were all firm and thick.
“There's no way Cain found his way indoors through here,” said Bob, shaking his head. “So where did these marks come from?”
“What's that stone in the corner?” asked David, pointing to the area of earth that was most disturbed. “That isn't part of the wall.”
“It's been there as long as I can remember,” shrugged Bob. “I've never given it any thought.”
David moved closer to examine the piece of slate that was thrust into the soil near the corner. It was old and had only two markings upon it: the letters 'M.C.'. David turned to look at Bob, his face pale. “You know what this is, don't you? Dear God, Bob, this is Mary Cain's grave! They buried her beneath her own house!”
“Don't be ridiculous!” Bob spluttered.
“Why not?” demanded David. “The church would have refused to bury her in consecrated ground. Her family buried her on her own property, then your ancestors moved in and claimed it, never realising that the woman who had died because of their accusations of sorcery was lying beneath their very feet!”
Bob stared at the small piece of slate uncomprehendingly. “So what do we do?” he finally asked in a small voice.
“We prepare,” said David firmly. “Come on, while it's still light.”
As the midnight hour approached, the wind began to rise once more, swooping around the cottage with its ghoulish howls, rattling the blackthorn. Eric Cain stood among the dark shrubs, his hands once again caressing the thickest branches, allowing the long thorns to pierce his flesh until the blood began to flow down the black wood. He gritted his teeth and began to concentrate, focusing his pain so that he could once again call his great-grandmother forth from her grave to restore the family name and fortunes.
Cain could see that a light still shone in the kitchen window, and that a visitor's car was parked outside the cottage. No matter, the conjuration was becoming stronger every time, and tonight the revenant would be strong enough to kill all that got in its way. Tonight Cain would join his mind to that of his wronged ancestor, and together they would destroy the family who had brought them low. Mary Cain would be avenged, and would delight as her great-grandson assumed her place and recovered her ancient lore, buried in the ground with her.
Cain's eyelids fluttered as he entered deeper into his trance, feeling Mary's sleeping mind respond to the touch of his own. The wind lashed the blackthorn around him, but he didn't feel it: his flesh was cold with the embrace of dark earth, the soil that held his ancestor in her clammy prison. He began to writhe and struggle against the weight of the black earth, and the iron-hard, mummified flesh of Mary began to claw and dig in response.
Bob and David stood in the kitchen, watching the closed door that led down to the earthen basement. Bob was feeling tense and nervous, his palms clammy with sweat. He was also sweating because David had piled logs into the stove and the cast iron box was radiating considerable heat. He wondered again about the bizarre situation and questioned his sanity for believing it at all and going along with David's suggestions. How long would they have to wait, he wondered, and what if daylight came without any disturbance? Would that prove them wrong, or was it too late to ever admit you were wrong after treading this far along the road to madness?
All of his doubts and ramblings were put aside, however, when the handle of the basement door began to turn. David shot him a sharp look and despite his terror, he nodded his readiness.
The door opened inwards towards the basement, causing the figure at the top of the wooden steps to lean back momentarily to allow it to swing past. Naturally, this put the person opening the door at a disadvantage, upsetting their balance for a moment. Nevertheless, when he saw what stood there, horror seized Bob, body and soul, and he froze to the spot, almost losing the initiative.
The creature that stood in the shadows beyond the door was blackened and gnarled like old wood. It may once have been human, but the body fats had shrunk and withered away, leaving only a mummified cadaver, its flesh dark and shrivelled, dried and hard as old leather. The eye sockets were empty, but a malevolent will beat out of them, as if the hideous thing was seeing with the force of its mind. The teeth protruded from shrunken, wasted gums and wisps of grey hair clung to the scalp. In its right hand, the walking corpse grasped a heavy staff of blackthorn, with which it supported itself as its long dead limbs, unused to movement, shuffled forward.
“Bob! Now!” David's shout snapped Bob out of his terrified trance and he gripped hard the heavy kitchen bench that they carried between them. They charged forward, slamming the end of the bench into the ghastly visitor, sending it cartwheeling down the steps. As the bench reached the limit of its swing, they both let go, sending it crashing down to land on top of the vile revenant.
Their plan having worked, taking the thing by surprise when it was at its most vulnerable at the top of the steps, the two men now swallowed hard to overcome their fear and descended into the basement. Bob, who was heavier than David, pressed his full weight down hard on the bench, pinning the creature to the floor, where it struggled and writhed, trying to free itself. David produced a large bread knife which he had tucked into his belt and he began stabbing furiously at its chest, trying to penetrate the tough, leathery hide.
The horrible, emaciated figure hissed and struggled, but David managed to hack a hole in its wood-like breast. The hardened flesh was harder to cut through than the rib cage, whose bones were so decayed that they snapped and crumbled at the touch of the knife. Within, David saw the atrophied organ that had once been Mary Cain's heart, now dried out and shrunken to the size and shape of a walnut. He seized it, gagging at the noisome stench from the horror's innards, and cut the elasticated cords that held it in place. He held the gruesome trophy above his head and called out, “I've got it, Bob! I've got it!”
Bob continued pinning Mary's corpse to the floor as he said through gritted teeth. “Well, hurry up and burn it. She's stronger than she looks, she'll be loose again in a minute.”
David ran up the basement steps, into the kitchen, still triumphantly clutching the heart, despite the fact that the creature in the cell continued functioning perfectly adequately without it. He yanked open the stove door, where the fire was blazing, and threw the withered heart inside, closing the door upon it. “The only real way to be rid of a witch is to burn her,” he spat. “So burn, witch!”
“David!” called Bob frantically from the basement. “Nothing seems to be happening, and it's getting really difficult to hold her … oh, shit!”
Bob ran to the head of the steps and looked down, where he saw the leathery cadaver shoving the bench aside and wrapping her wiry limbs around Bob. She got his neck in the crook of her arm and began to squeeze mercilessly, a malevolent hiss escaping from her dried up lungs as she did so. Bob was gagging and struggling, but it was plain that the strength in that mummified carcase was too great for him to resist.
“I don't understand it,” frowned David, bewildered. He looked back at the stove, where the heart sat among the burnin
g wood, steadfastly refusing to catch light. “The fire should destroy her essence, banish her spirit.” He jumped down into the basement to help Bob, who was now flailing his arms in panic and beginning to turn a puce colour. He seized hold of the arm that was wrapped around Bob's neck and tried to dislodge it, but it may as well have been made of steel for all the effect he had. But he then noticed the other arm, which still clutched the heavy blackthorn staff.
“Of course!” shouted David. “Blackthorn! The wood used by a black magician to exert his will upon another, controlling them and coercing them to obey! She's being animated through the blackthorn by another's will!”
He reached out and snapped a jagged splinter from the wood, bearing a particularly wicked thorn. Then he turned and pounded back up the steps to the kitchen. Bob waved his arms at him, weakly and beseechingly, but David now understood that his only hope of saving his friend lay in the kitchen, and in the deadly barb that he bore in his hand.
He opened the stove again and swallowed hard as he looked into the flames. But there was only one thing for it: he thrust his hand into the stove, screaming aloud as his skin blistered, and he thrust the thorn through the dried up heart of Mary Cain. Instantly, the shrivelled organ stopped resisting the fire: it smoked blackly and then burst into bright flames with a keening wail of escaping gas. David nursed his scorched hand as he watched the flames consume the heart, the spell that sustained it through the blackthorn now broken.
A minute later, Bob climbed the steps, rubbing his bruised throat and gasping. “She just collapsed,” he croaked. “Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.”
Outside, amid the blackthorn thicket, Eric Cain opened his mouth wide in a silent scream, his mind still deep in trance, linked to that of his great-grandmother. He flailed his arms as if beating out flames, thrashing about as the burning heart communicated its extinction back to him through the psychic link he had used to control it through the blackthorn.
The Eldritch Isle Page 8