The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus

by John Burke

  Below, the voices of Peter and her father were intermittent now. They were probably drowsing over a glass of port or whisky. Probably, she thought wryly, they would come clumping upstairs to bed just when she and Alice had drifted into slumber.

  It was not until she was about to slide between the sheets—lavender-scented, and crisper and cleaner than most of the things in Alice’s home—that she realized the curtains were still tightly drawn.

  Sylvia blew out her candle and went to draw them back.

  Outside there was utter stillness. On the ground, at least. Nothing stirred in the square and there were no lights on in any of the windows; but clouds scudded briskly across the sky, obscuring the moon and then revealing it again with fine flourishes.

  Sylvia took a deep breath. This was how she had envisaged the place—serene and dreamy, far from the city clangor. In spite of their disconcerting reception, everything was going to be all right. Silvered by the fitful moonlight, the deserted square and the old houses were restful and reassuring.

  She was about to turn away from the window when a flicker of movement in the street below attracted her attention. Somebody was moving silently along, close to the wall.

  Sylvia leaned out.

  A cloud drew its veil away from the moon, and in a shaft of cold light Sylvia saw Alice. She was walking soundlessly but purposefully away from the house.

  “Alice . . . !”

  In her own ears Sylvia’s voice seemed unnaturally loud. But Alice gave no sign of having heard. She hurried on, her pace not faltering for an instant.

  Sylvia hesitated. Then she dressed hurriedly, dragged on her coat, and went downstairs. There was no sound from the two men. She debated whether to call on them, but was deterred by the thought of the explanations and the possible embarrassment later. Whatever it was that had made Alice so wretched and reduced her to her present pitiable state, and whatever it was that drew her out into the night, she might be opposed to the idea of her husband finding out. She had really taken Sylvia into her confidence not at all; but her hints had been disturbing.

  Sylvia turned away from the parlor door and let herself out through a side door in the kitchen.

  Alice had disappeared, but when last seen had been heading for the narrow street on the far side of the square. Sylvia ran across at a diagonal and plunged into the gloom of the narrow chasm—for, low as the houses on either side were, they seemed to close in like the crumbling walls of an abyss.

  At the end she stopped. The village was tightly packed and came abruptly to a halt on the edge of an expanse of fields. Alice was clearly visible from here, bent forward as she plodded up a slope towards the moors.

  Sylvia followed the dusty road until she found a gate and the faintest sketch of a footpath up the hill. She clambered over and set off in pursuit.

  After a few minutes she began to fear that she had lost her friend. A dark ridge of trees blotted out the crown of the hill. If Alice had vanished into these it would be difficult to guess where she would be likely to come out.

  Sylvia crept warily round the perimeter of the wood. As she reached the crown of the hill she could see dark, jagged shapes against the horizon a few hundred yards away. She stopped in the shelter of the trees.

  In a shallow depression in the moorland stood the disused workings of an old tin mine. A few huts had rotted into sagging clumps of woodwork, but the winding shed was still intact and the wheel was clearly etched against the sky.

  It was impossible to decide whether Alice was moving across the shadowy saucer towards the mine. The whole thing was mad, anyway: no right-minded person would trudge up here at this time of night.

  “Alice . . .”

  Sylvia called out and then wished she hadn’t. The sound was ghostly. It awoke a bubble of protest from a distant owl, and then died eerily away.

  Then there was another sound. Something moved in the tangled undergrowth of the wood. There was a snapping of twigs and the rustle of foliage. Sylvia took a step towards the open field, then flattened herself against a tree trunk. To break cover and expose herself on that clear, moonlit slope would be insane.

  The rustling became a splintering, crashing sound, as though some blundering beast were trampling down everything in its path. As her eyes grew accustomed to the treacherous shadows and shifting moonlight, Sylvia saw a malevolent face emerge from blackness into the pale glow filtered down through the branches above. It was Martinus, drunk and destructive.

  He saw her at the same moment as she saw him, and let out a growl of satisfaction.

  “I know you.”

  He reared up and stumbled towards her with his arms outstretched. Sylvia turned and ran. The fields were bare and bright ahead of her but she had no time to plan any evasive action. All she wanted to do was run back to the village, uncaring who saw her.

  She raced on down the hill and over a gentle ridge and did not stop until she was sure that Martinus was not pursuing. Then, panting for breath, she tried to get her bearings. She had gone off course. This was not the direct route from the road: taking the easiest and fastest slope, she had veered away from the village.

  As she tried to calm herself, she saw three contorted shapes appearing out of the valley. The outlines were blurred and she could make nothing of them until, as she swung questioningly round in the full flood of the moonlight, one let out a whoop of joy.

  It was unmistakable. It was the savage cackle of the young man who had so vengefully defiled the funeral procession in the village square.

  Now Sylvia knew even more truly what it felt like to be a hunted animal. She was surrounded by wide open spaces, but there was nowhere to run. As she took a few stumbling steps across a landscape which was utterly foreign to her, a horseman raced up the slope to intercept her. And when she floundered away in the opposite direction, there was a jubilant whoop and another man was bearing down upon her.

  Desperately she raced back towards the woods. She gained their protection as three horsemen united to ride her down. But it was a flimsy protection. The trees were too widely spaced for security. They allowed her enough light to see where she was going—but allowed the horsemen the same advantage, and also allowed them to wheel in and out of the trees. It became a wild, nightmarish game. She sobbed for breath, tore her hands as she groped her way through the undergrowth, and all the time the men were laughing exultantly and closing in on her inexorably.

  At last the leader was close beside her. He leaned down from the saddle. She tried to spring to one side, but was brought up sharp up against a tree. And then his arm was round her and she was dragged up before him.

  The horses wheeled away, picked a path back to the edge of the wood, and broke out triumphantly into the open country once more.

  The humiliation of it was more than Sylvia could bear. More than she could believe. It was impossible that in this modern world a group of vindictive young rogues could behave like this and hope to get away with it. Impossible: yet it was happening to her. The blood rushed to her head as she swung to and fro across the saddle, steadied only by one dominating hand in the small of her back. She saw only the swirl of grass and then a patch of lane, until at last the pace slowed and below her there was the sweep of a gravel drive.

  They came to a halt. Her captor swung to the ground and transferred his grip to her wrist. Cruelly he dragged her down so that she almost feel, and then marched with her towards an ornate oak door.

  Sylvia had time for the merest glimpse of an imposing Georgian frontage, and then she was half led, half jerked into a spacious entrance hall lit by four richly gilded candelabra.

  She was afraid, yet had gone through the worst fear. Whatever happened to her now, she would not flinch. They should get no pleasure from tormenting her.

  But she still had the icy, fearful knowledge that they intended to try.

  The man who had abducted her threw her before him so violently that one of his companions muttered a faint protest.

  “Denver, do you
think he—”

  “Watch her.” The command was a peremptory snarl. “A cigar—a glass of wine while we discuss the matter?”

  There had been three of them, but now a fourth appeared from somewhere. They formed a circle round her. Glasses were produced. Three of them lit their cigars and drank as though in a derisive toast to her. The one called Denver was neither smoking nor drinking. He still held his riding crop and he was studying her with sadistic calm.

  “What shall it be, lads?” he said at last.

  One of the bloods turned to a side table and produced a pack of cards. He broke it open and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Aces high?”

  “I have no objections,” said Denver.

  “Aces high,” the others murmured.

  Denver took the pack and walked round the room. There was an element of ritual in it. He tasted every evil minute of it. Then he held out the pack. The first man took a card . . . the second . . . the third . . .

  Sylvia struggled up to her knees. The nightmare was becoming so obscene and so monstrous that she was sure it must all suddenly dissolve before her eyes. She must wake up. She tried to drag herself out of the dream. It remained solid and abominably convincing.

  Denver turned over his own card and smiled. “The King of Hearts—how appropriate!”

  The others laughed and tossed their cards aside.

  Sylvia found her voice. “Don’t touch me.” It sounded feeble and absurd.

  The men laughed. There was no humor in it—only a gloating expectancy.

  Denver came towards her. He stood immediately above her, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped his hunting crop.

  Very softly he said: “Now, little fox. Now. Go to ground.”

  5

  The spade clinked one dull note against the churchyard gate as Peter hurried through. He stopped dead in the shadow of a sombre yew and waited for Sir James to catch him up. The sound had been faint, but in the silence of the night it seemed to ring out across the square. They stood quite still until they were sure that no one had been disturbed. Then Sir James opened one chink in the storm lantern he was carrying, and they found the path round the side of the church. As they got to the eastern end the moon appeared from behind the clouds, and he darkened the lantern again.

  The hummock of the new grave bore one small posy of wild flowers and nothing else. Sir James gently removed them and laid them on one side.

  The two men looked round. Nothing stirred save the upper branches of the yew, rustling a melancholy dirge.

  Peter began to dig.

  From time to time Sir James went to the side of the church and looked along it towards the square. Nobody moved; there were no lights in any of the windows; no dog barked.

  The earth was not yet packed hard. It did not take Peter long to reach the top of the coffin. He cleared dirt and stones off the lid, and then reached up for the screwdriver. Sir James handed it to him and waited on the edge of the grave. He did not expect to see anything important and immediately convincing the moment the lid was lifted; but even to his materialistic mind there was something awesome in this violation of a man’s last resting-place.

  The last screw came clear. Peter straightened up to regain his breath, and held the screwdriver up so that Sir James could take it from him.

  “Now . . .”

  “Now,” said a portentous voice at Sir James’s shoulder, “perhaps you’ll just step up here, if you please.”

  Sir James narrowly avoided pitching headfirst into the gaping hole. He got his balance and turned to see who had joined them.

  There was a glint of buttons. A dark uniform made an impressive outline against the greyer shadows of the church. This was, Sir James supposed resignedly, what was known as a fair cop. Then he saw that there was another shape in the background. There were two of them. No hope of lashing out and making a run for it.

  Peter scrambled up out of the hole.

  “Sergeant, I realize how serious this looks . . .”

  “I’m glad of that, Doctor, because it’s a serious charge you’ll be on in the morning.”

  Sir James summoned all his resources of dignity and outright imperiousness. “What charge exactly, Sergeant?”

  The police officer glanced at Peter, seeking an explanation.

  “Sir James Forbes,” said Peter.

  “Oh.” The sergeant was a little put out. “Oh, yes.”

  “With what do you intend charging us?” asked Sir James.

  “Meself, sir, I’d call it body snatching.”

  The constable moved in closer. He was a much younger man than the sergeant, and looked with wide-eyed dismay at the yawning grave.

  Sir James carried on a quick debate with himself. There was nothing to be lost now. Probably nothing to be gained, either—but it was infuriating to have come this far and to be sent away empty-handed. He said:

  “Since we have already reached the final stage of our—ah—inquiry, would you object to our lifting the lid of the coffin? Just for a moment?”

  “I would object, sir,” said the sergeant solemnly. “The dead’s got a right to lay where they been put. If you touch that coffin—”

  “We’ve already touched it.”

  “Yes, and there’ll be no more of it.”

  Sir James thrust his massive head forward. He knew he wasn’t playing fair in trying to over-awe a policeman who was only doing his bounden duty; but his blood was up and he wasn’t going to be defeated.

  Peter seized his opportunity. While the attention of the sergeant and constable strayed, he jumped back into the grave, stooped, and lifted the lid.

  Too late, the sergeant realized what was happening.

  “Here, you can’t . . .”

  “My God,” said Peter.

  There was something in his tone that struck them dumb. Automatically they advanced to the very edge of the grave and looked down into the coffin.

  It was empty.

  “Gawd.” It was both a prayer and a curse, offered up by the constable.

  “What’s going on?” demanded the sergeant. “I don’t understand.”

  “No more do we,” said Sir James forcefully. “But we’re going to have the whole thing explained before I leave this village. That I can promise you. And to start with, Sergeant, I want your help. I want you to say nothing of what you have seen here tonight.”

  “Well, I don’t know as that’s possible.”

  “Sergeant—it doesn’t need me to tell you that something very wrong is going on in this village. Your village. Young men dying like flies,” he quoted with a brief glance at Peter. “And now this.”

  “The old doctor said it was the marsh fever.”

  “Marsh fever? Up here? Marsh fiddlesticks. And in any case, I never heard of marsh fever or any other kind of fever causing a body to disappear into thin air, have you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you going to help, or not?”

  “Body snatching is a serious business, sir,” said the sergeant doggedly, clinging to the only apparent certainty in the whole affair.

  “So is death.”

  “I couldn’t be a party to—”

  “A party to what? And while we’re on the subject, how are you going to condemn us for body snatching when there isn’t a body here in the first place? If you want to see justice done, you’d better start looking somewhere else, my dear fellow.”

  The two policemen exchanged glances and then looked away. Their attention wandered back inevitably to the open grave—open and empty.

  “If you don’t care what happens to your fellow men,” exploded Sir James in a final furious attempt, “then I see no reason why I should care either. I or my worthy colleague here. Why should Doctor Tompson have to face continual opposition from the villagers when all he wants to do is help them? Why should we bother, if nobody here is concerned with the truth—or with the wellbeing of people in the district?”

  The sergeant cleared his throat as though a
bout to talk him down. Then he said: “I’d like to help, sir. Really I would.” He hesitated. “My own lad was one of the first to go.”

  “Then do help for his sake.”

  The sergeant glanced again at the constable—warily this time, as though trying to decide whether he could trust him.

  “Very well, sir. I’ll withhold my report for forty-eight hours. Daren’t do more than that. And by rights—”

  Sir James interrupted him by holding out a hand.

  “Well done, Officer. I’ll see that you don’t regret it.”

  The sergeant shook hands awkwardly. Once more his gaze was drawn towards the grave.

  “What do we do about—”

  “We’ll fill it in again. Make it look as if it’s never been touched.”

  Sir James shivered. He had gone through more than enough for one day and night. He wasn’t as young as he had been, and the night air wasn’t doing his chest any good.

  Peter noticed the tremor.

  “Leave it to us, Sir James. I’m sure our friends will help me. You go and wait inside where it’s warm. And perhaps you’ll find there’s a time when a glass of whisky is no bad thing.”

  Sir James was about to deny that he felt cold or that he had any intention of going indoors. Then he coughed. It was an unpleasant, rasping noise. He conceded defeat.

  Miraculously the square was still silent and devoid of life as he entered it slowly from the churchyard. Such secrets as the village had were kept securely behind locked doors and shutters.

  And Sylvia, he thought with wry affection, was sleeping through it all.

  6

  “Leave her alone!”

  Sylvia saw Denver’s hand reaching greedily and possessively for her; and saw it stop. His face went as white as his clenched knuckles.

  They all looked up.

  At the top of the stairs stood a man who had the same arrogant good looks as Denver, but with an added quality which was hard to define at first glance. He was in every way stronger and more determined—another hedonist, perhaps, but one whose pleasures were more esoteric and under more rigid control than Denver’s.