Hunger

by Aonghus Fallon

desk, a bundle of charred incense sticks in a jar before it, just as he was struck by one open book amongst the many littering that desk. It reminded him of some illuminated manuscript, although the script and language were unknown to him and the illustrations – sinuous, intricate and vividly coloured – were enough to make his skin crawl.

  What strange obsessions his uncle been prey to, before his death?

  Bonfigliotti seemed wholly oblivious to both that book and the malevolent gaze of the deity behind him, just as he was oblivious to the gusts of wind which buffeted the window, or the sound of the rain splashing and gurgling down the drainpipe adjacent to it – for the rains had returned with a vengeance as dusk fell – his curly head bowed over some sort of log.

  ‘Your cousins gave me permission to enter,’ he murmured, without looking up, as if anticipating some rebuke on Grieves’ part, ‘though they will not enter the room themselves. Their father forbade them to do so while still alive and they see no reason to disobey him now that he is dead.’

  In truth, Grieves was less than happy with Bonfigliotti’s presence in his uncle’s study, all the more so as it clearly had little or no bearing on their investigation.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he demanded curtly.

  ‘Your uncle was a meticulous man. This log covers everything from the basic design of his beloved telescope, an estimate of any materials, and a day-by-day account of its actual construction.’

  ‘I fail to see the relevance.’

  ‘It makes interesting reading nonetheless. Several men fell to their deaths during the telescope’s construction, as you know. By then it was nearly finished, but the men had come to believe it was cursed and refused to labour on it anymore.’

  ‘Nearly finished?’

  Bonfigliotti shut the log and sat back, tapping his mouth thoughtfully. ‘Si. The casing for the final lens had to be attached. An hour’s work no more, if a dangerous and tricky operation. Yet your uncle could get nobody to carry it out. It must have irked him greatly – especially with death so close. That he should die, with his project still incomplete.’

  ‘It would have caused him even greater unhappiness if he had known there was one intent on destroying what he had already achieved.’

  The little Italian scrutinised Grieves thoughtfully for one long moment. ‘I have a theory.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe our culprit may return to finish whatever task he has embarked upon.’

  ‘He will not do so at any time in the near future. I have doubled the number of men posted around the estate.’

  ‘You are mistaken. He will do so tonight, weather permitting.’

  And so midnight found Grieves following the little Italian across the estate grounds in near total darkness and in torrential rain, armed with little more than a pair of sturdy black umbrellas and a pistol (although Grieves had neglected to mention the latter to his companion).

  Bonfigliotti had refused to elaborate any further on his theory. Grieves had realised his course of action was clear nonetheless: if he wished to bring to justice the one who had tried to destroy his uncle’s telescope, this monster who feasted on the dead, than he had no choice but to humour his little companion.

  Having reached the telescope, the two concealed themselves under one of the nearby trees. It was a wild, wet and windy night. Even with the benefit of their umbrellas, and liberally wrapped up, the pair were soon soaked to the skin, and as one hour gave way to another, Grieves’ doubts about his friend’s ‘theory’ grew and grew.

  ‘It seems you are mistaken!’ he shouted into Bonfigliotti’s ear. ‘He will not be visiting us tonight!’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ The little Italian was calmness personified. ‘It all depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘As I said, your uncle’s telescope was tampered with on two occasions. The first occasion was almost precisely a month ago. Then there was last night. Do those dates hold any significance for you?’

  Grieves frowned for a moment, resisting the urge to consult his pocket book, before finally answering – ‘The moon.’

  ‘Yes. On a cloudless night, a full moon would negate the necessity of a lamp – which would only have drawn the attention of the household anyway, and last night was clear, if only for a few hours. Therefore, our culprit has some task other than simple vandalism in mind.’

  Already the rain was lessening and the wind growing weaker, while above them the clouds were starting to break up, the faintest glint of silver showing through the prevailing murk.

  Grieves snorted. ‘You said before that we were dealing with an individual not in full possession of his senses. Yet now you say he has some specific task he wishes to complete. Surely you must see the two notions contradict one another? I am beginning to suspect, my dear Gabriele, that your ‘theory’ is based more on blind hope than sound reasoning.’

  ‘Hope?’ the little Italian said very softly, almost to himself. ‘I follow the evidence, amico mio, nothing more.’

  So unusually sombre was his friend’s tone, that Grieves felt compelled to ask him to elaborate, but before he could do so Bonfigliotti had gripped him tightly by the arm and his senses instantly prickled into alertness.

  Something was moving quickly and silently across the sodden grass; little more than a shadowy silhouette, yet that scrawny form made Grieves shiver though he knew not why, except to consider that his cousin’s unease about their mysterious trouble-maker had been justified.

  Automatically he reached for his pistol. Just then their night prowler passed very close to where they were standing, and Grieves caught the faint but distinct whiff of decay, a smell so unpleasant he momentarily forgot his intentions. A second later, and the figure had been swallowed up by the darkness.

  He moved to follow it, but again felt Bonfigliotti grip him by the arm.

  Minutes ticked by, the clouds parting and the moon – which had risen high in the sky at this stage but been hidden from view until that very minute – was revealed in all its pale glory. Suddenly that telescope was bathed in its light and Grieves could see a figure perched at its apex – again, little more than a silhouette yet inexplicably sinister. It crouched atop the telescope like some species of malignant goblin, gaunt and sinewy. In that same instant the sudden stillness was broken by a mysterious hollow tapping, as if some nocturnal woodpecker were at work.

  Without hesitation Grieves raised his pistol and fired.

  The creature let out a piercing cry and leapt from the top of the telescope to the ground. It did not seem to have done itself an injury despite the great height for it was already racing towards them, some tall, naked form – Grieves had not thought it possible to be quite so emaciated and still live – its skin freckled and blotched and pallid; its long teeth bared in a snarl, their prominence due as much to the desiccated state of their owner’s features as anything else. Most horrible of all was the fleeting sense of familiarity the apparition provoked in Grieves. He fired a second time and although he was certain he must have hit it, the creature did not slow down but raced past them both, vanishing amongst the dappled shadows of the trees.

  Grieves spotted it a second later, limping across the lawns to the east of the house. Despite the fear which that one glimpse had evoked in him, he pursued it without hesitation, Bonfigliotti at his heels.

  That pursuit was not without obstacles. That pasture had been churned up by cattle so it was rutted and uneven. There was a fence and then a small stream. By the time he had crossed this last obstacle, Grieves had lost all sight of their intruder.

  Yet he continued to run, following the flattened grass the man had left in his wake, the recent rains making this trail gleam like silver in the moonlight. Alas, this faded into invisibility as the grass grew thinner and shorter. By then Grieves was just a hundred yards short of the estate walls and Bonfigliotti was far behind. Realising he had lost his quarry, he sighed and lowered his gun.

  That was when he noticed the op
en door.

  He was standing by the family graveyard. This lay at a slight elevation just inside the estate walls, with the family mausoleum forming a centrepiece. And now the moonlight made it possible for him to see the mausoleum door was ajar. With a sickening jolt, he realised the same individual who had desecrated the graveyard belonging to his uncle’s tenants had now desecrated another.

  Having a box of matches in his possession and feeling obliged to establish the extent of the creature’s depredations – if only to make up for not catching it – Grieves pushed open the graveyard gate fully meaning to enter the mausoleum and make his way to the crypt below. Yet on reaching that doorway something about the sight of those stone steps – descending down into a pitch darkness – made him hesitate. That, and the loathsome smell which seemed to ooze up out of that selfsame darkness.

  It was at this juncture that he felt Bonfigliotti grip him by the arm yet again. The little Italian had finally caught up with him and his face was a mask of concern in the moonlight.

  ‘Amico mio. Do not venture down there.’

  Grieves stared at the philosopher in puzzlement. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because you will find nothing to your advantage – nothing that will help your cousins sleep easier at night.’

  ‘You are referring to the possibility that my uncle may have been our cannibal’s latest meal?’

  Bonfigliotti released his grip, his