The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus

by John Burke

  Alice smiled. It was the most hideous contortion the human lips had ever made.

  Sir James braced himself.

  “Zombie!” He brought the spade down with all the force he could muster. “Zombie!”

  Peter screamed. He wanted to close his eyes but they remained open. He saw the murderous slice of the spade. Alice’s head was jolted to one side. Sir James twisted the spade back and struck again, and this time Alice’s head was severed and hurled into the tangled weeds beside an unkempt grave.

  Sir James rocked where he stood, then drove the bloody spade into the ground and leaned on it, gagging.

  Peter watched what was left of Alice crumpling up beside the headstone. Blood soaked into the grass. And a few yards away, the grin mercifully hidden from him, her head rolled to a halt.

  He walked forward. Nothing was normal. The church leaned at a crazy angle. The tombstones were like teeth, splintered and decaying. He reached out for something secure and found nothing. Sir James stood before him with his arms open, and Peter felt that he was being held upright, yet at the same time his brain swam in a mad frenzy and he was falling, falling . . . continuing to fall.

  And somehow he was down at last and crawling through the grass. Alice’s headless body lay to one side of him. He had to find the head, had to get his hands on it. If he fitted it back on without delay, it might stick. Must get it on the right way round, of course. He would be struck off the medical register if he fitted it on back to front. Alice . . . where was her head, what had happened to her smile, who had stolen it from him?

  He stopped and stared at a grave which was opening up before him. The ground dissolved, and the gap yawned before him.

  A thin bony hand clawed at the edge.

  Beyond, another grave opened. And another.

  The dead were rising from the earth. Grey-faced, wrapped in their shrouds, the zombies scrambled up to the air again. Their movements were jerky and uncoordinated as though they needed practice. But they were moving: they were unconfined; no coffin and no weight of earth could hold them down.

  They were coming closer. Peter wanted to wriggle away through the grass and weeds, but was pinned down by the vacuous gaze of the leader. He had to wait for them to reach him. They came on—and when they paused it was not because of him but because of the head they had found in the grass. Alice’s head . . . so that was where it was. The tallest of the zombies looked down and smiled a horrible smile of welcome.

  And the severed head of Alice smiled back.

  Peter screamed. He had held it in for too long, and now he screamed until he felt that his lungs would burst and his throat be torn apart; and still went on screaming.

  Light swayed above him. He stared into it and saw the mellow flame of the oil lamp. Beside it was the face of Sir James Forbes.

  “It’s all right, Peter. You’ve had a nightmare. That’s all.”

  “A nightmare.” He let one hand fall to his side. It touched something rough yet yielding. His fingers recognized the texture: he was on the settee in the parlor; he was at home. “Then it wasn’t . . . none of it . . . Alice . . . ?”

  “I’m afraid that part of it was true. You passed out. I got you home.”

  “And Alice?”

  He saw her too clearly, beheaded and still alive, calling down a monstrous retribution on them. Dragging herself through a spiritual undergrowth from now to eternity . . .

  Sir James said: “She has been reburied. Properly. The vicar carried out a service of absolution and exorcism. Nothing evil can touch her again. She will rest in peace this time.”

  Peter tried to sit up, but lacked the will.

  “But after we left Alice,” he muttered. “The rest of it—the dream . . .”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  No, he didn’t want to tell anyone. Yet he had to exorcize it, as the vicar had exorcized the other evil. It had to be told aloud. He said:

  “I dreamt I saw the dead arise. All the graves in the churchyard opened up and the dead came out.”

  Not unnatural, said one part of his mind. Just what you’d expect to dream, after what you had seen.

  But Sir James looked serious and attentive. “All the graves opening up?”

  “All empty,” said Peter. “Empty. An awful dream—it seemed so real.”

  11

  The sergeant stood back and wiped his sweating brow. It was the tenth grave they had opened. The result here was the same as in all the others.

  He said: “Sir . . . in heaven’s name, where are they?”

  Sir James looked across the devastated churchyard. They had dug up all the most recent graves and confirmed his worst suspicions. Every coffin was empty. The tombstones, fresh and shining among the older memorials, were a mockery. Nothing remained of the bodies which had been reverently laid in the hallowed earth.

  “Sergeant, can I leave you to supervise the filling in of all these graves?”

  The hours before the dawn had been occupied with opening them up, and the police officer was weary. But he glanced at his constable and the two of them shrugged. They were good, solid men—but here and now they were very frightened men, anxious only to accept a lead from someone.

  “Yes, sir. But . . . well, what do we do about this? Do we start looking for ’em—the bodies, I mean?”

  “Yes. But first we find out where to look.” Sir James paced slowly towards the churchyard gate. “Before I leave you to this rather arduous task, could I have a word with your prisoner, young Martinus?”

  “You think he might know something, sir?”

  “Yes. Although he himself may not realize that he knows it.”

  They went back to the police station. The sergeant and constable both showed great alacrity. Sir James had an idea that they proposed, before anything else, to have a cup of tea in familiar surroundings.

  Their anticipation of comfort was rudely shattered. The desk in the outer room had been overturned, and the door of the one and only cell had been forced: the lock was halfway down the passage as though torn from the door by brute force.

  “He’s gone,” said the constable blankly.

  “And the question,” said Sir James, “is—where did he go? Has he joined the others?”

  The sergeant blanched. “You mean . . . but he’s not dead.”

  “Not yet. But he may be soon.” As the two policemen exchanged horrified glances, Sir James went on: “Did he have any visitors yesterday, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  The constable made a fussy little noise at the back of his throat that brought Sir James round sharply. “Well—did he?”

  “Er . . . well, sir, only the squire.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He just wanted a word with the prisoner. Martinus had done some work for him, and he thought he might help. Wanted a word with him, anyway.” The constable glanced apprehensively at his superior. “I didn’t think there was anything wrong.”

  “What did he say to the prisoner?” asked the sergeant portentously.

  “I didn’t listen. Didn’t think it would be right.”

  “They just talked?” said Sir James. “Nothing else?”

  They just talked. Oh . . . and the squire asked for a glass of water.”

  “Where is it?”

  “What?” said the constable blankly, his face growing hot and red.

  “The glass.”

  “Threw it away, sir. It got broken.”

  “Who broke it—you?”

  “No, sir. The squire did. Dropped it, he said.”

  “And Martinus cut himself.”

  The constable looked at him open-mouthed. “How did you know that?”

  It ceased to be abstract. It was no longer a matter of logical deduction. Sir James thought of Alice Tompson and wondered how Clive Hamilton had coaxed her into a situation where something could be broken, some gash inflicted on her wrist; and then he thought of his own daughter. And, thinking of Sylvia, he strode past the serg
eant and constable and hurried up the street to the village square.

  He burst into the parlor. It was empty. He went perilously up the stairs two at a time and flung open Sylvia’s bedroom door. She was not there. As scared as he had ever been in his life, he stumbled down the stairs again.

  Sylvia appeared from the kitchen with a cup and a tea towel in her hands.

  “Anything wrong, Father?”

  He took a deep breath and steadied himself. “Nothing. Where’s Peter?”

  “He went out for a breath of air. Said he wasn’t feeling too well. We’ll have to do something about him, Father—persuade him to move back to London, or at any rate to cut himself off from this place in one way or another. He’s got to put it all behind him.”

  Her concern for Peter reassured him. She was safe. Worrying about somebody else’s welfare, she could hardly be in any danger herself. He had been jumping to conclusions. Very unscientific.

  He said: “How’s your finger?”

  “Fine.” She looked surprised. At home, he rarely asked about her ailments: a doctor, he had to admit, was a very bad helpmeet to his nearest and dearest. “It’s healing up nicely.”

  Sir James sat down. Then he got up again. He could not wait: there was no time for lengthy analyses of the situation, or for fruitless discussions with the bewildered police. He would force himself to stay here until Peter got back, and no longer. Sylvia appeared to be in no immediate danger, but he did not want to leave her alone. While he did what he had to do, he must be sure there was someone to watch over her.

  He paced about the room, to Sylvia’s intense irritation, until Peter returned. Then, as Sylvia went out to put a kettle on, he said:

  “Peter, I want you to do something for me. You must promise not to let my daughter out of your sight until it’s safe to do so. Will you give me that promise?”

  “Safe? I don’t understand. What danger is—”

  “Your promise?”

  “Of course. But you’re not going to be here: you’re going out?”

  “Yes. Wait for me.”

  He went back to the police station and spent some time studying a couple of tattered local maps which they kept. Then he called on the vicar again and went systematically through his books. There were references he had only glanced at during his first visit. Now he checked and cross-checked them. If he had had time he would have sent several messages to influential friends in London—friends with fingers in certain financial pies—but he had to rely on the picture he had built up from the available evidence. It was convincing enough. Voodoo and twentieth-century finance—a strange combination! But then, the earliest alchemists had tried to use magic for profit. Times had not changed; they had not changed nearly enough.

  It was almost dusk when Sir James set out on the path up to the moors. He went below the mine workings but did not approach too closely. The manor house was sinking into the evening gloom as he walked up the drive to the graceful front door. It was wrong that such a dignified house should contain such evil—if his theories were well-founded.

  When he tugged at the bell handle, the door was answered not by a servant but by the leader of the young bloods who had created such havoc in the village square. It was strange yet predictable. Sir James was more and more certain of his ground and more and more distressed. What servants did Hamilton use, that they must not show their faces to strangers and perform the accepted duties? What servants, and what labor force to bring him in his profits?

  He said: “I fancy we have met before, young man. However, it will achieve nothing to discuss that now. I am Sir James Forbes. I wish to speak to Mr. Clive Hamilton.”

  “Do you?” said the young man insolently. “He’s busy.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I, too, am a busy man. But as I have found time to come all the way here in order to see him, I think he can make the effort to come out and meet me. Would you be so good as to tell him that?”

  With an ill grace the young man stood back and allowed him to enter. Sir James stood in the middle of the spacious hall, admiring its elegant dimensions. As soon as he was alone he hurried to the nearest window and released the catch. He had a feeling that direct assault would not work and that he would need other approaches.

  As footsteps came nearer he just had time to cross to a painting in an alcove. He was studying it with rapt attention when a door at the foot of the stairs opened and Clive Hamilton crossed the hall.

  “What do you want to see me about?”

  There was no pretence of cordiality. The young squire showed every sign, observed Sir James, of someone in a hurry. He had been interrupted in some task which required his concentration. He was eager to be away. The tinge of choleric anger along his cheekbone, the eyes that tried to smile while darkening, the nervous twitch of one hand and the tightly clenched fist of the other—Sir James saw them all with professional detachment.

  He said: “I want to see you about Alice Tompson. And about young Martinus. And about my daughter.”

  A pulse began to beat agitatedly below the young man’s left eye. “What about them?”

  “And about many others,” said Sir James, “who should be at rest now—at rest in their graves. What has happened to them?”

  “Are you mad? How should I know?”

  “I almost wish I were mad. This whole business is so appalling.” He would not give Hamilton a chance to retreat into a defensive shell. He must strike, and strike hard. “Am I right in saying that you have spent a large part of your life abroad, Mr. Hamilton? In the Caribbean? In Haiti in particular? And while you were there, did you learn something of the practice of Voodoo?”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Not until I have been answered.”

  There was the faint click of a door opening. Clive Hamilton smiled evilly, not at Sir James but beyond him. Sir James turned and saw that half a dozen young men were sauntering into the hall. He had last seen them in hunting costume. Now they were casually dressed and relaxed, some of them with their hands in their pockets. But the menace which they represented was very real and immediate.

  Sir James shrugged. He had not known what form the threat would take, but he had known there would be one.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Hamilton.”

  He went to the door. One of the young men sprang forward and opened it for him with a mocking flourish. Sir James went out and walked steadily down the drive. When he was in the shelter of the hedge, he waited. Five minutes seemed as long as a whole night. Then he made his way back towards the house, this time walking silently on the grass.

  The moon came out as he reached the window which he had unlatched. He flattened himself against the wall and waited. There was no sound from within. Nobody patrolled the house and there was no growl from a watchdog inside or out.

  He opened the window without a sound and climbed rapidly in.

  The moonlight laid a path across the hall. Sir James kept well to one side and began to cross the floor. He was almost at the foot of the stairs when a door above opened. He darted into the shadow of the stairs.

  Clive Hamilton came slowly down. He turned towards one of the doors opening out of the hall and went into the room beyond. From where he stood, Sir James could see a dance of leaping flames against the wall. Hamilton moved to and fro and then disappeared. Sir James made himself stay where he was. Now was no time for taking risks. He didn’t want those young ruffians turned loose on him.

  Hamilton stepped again in front of the light from the fire. He was arrayed now in a long white robe, and was fitting a fearsome mask over his face. The flames licked up greedily as though answering a command.

  Sir James edged warily to one side in order to get a better view.

  He saw Hamilton bend over a desk and unlock one of its drawers. From it he took what looked like a small doll. As he held it up to the light he nodded his masked, hooded head in measured approval. Then he slammed the drawer shut and strode purposefully across the room as though setting out on s
ome mission, with little time to spare. Sir James expected him to reappear in the doorway; but the flickering firelight on the far wall was the only movement now.

  Sir James waited until he could endure the waiting no longer. When at last he tiptoed across the hall and looked cautiously into the room, Hamilton had vanished. There must be another, secret exit.

  Bizarre curios were marshalled on shelves about the room. They confirmed his belief that the darker customs of the Caribbean islands had exerted a sombre influence on Clive Hamilton.

  He came to the desk and tried the top drawer, it was empty. But the second one was full—crammed with little wooden coffins, each containing a blood-caked effigy.

  There was no need to count and no time now to identify each one of those dreadful little dolls. Given names, they would undoubtedly correspond to the people of the village who had died and then been so fiendishly resurrected. Left here, they would keep the power in Hamilton’s grasp: he would continue to possess his victims body and soul. They must be delivered into holy keeping, and the evil driven out.

  Sir James looked round the room. In one corner he found a battered old Gladstone bag. He set it on the desk and began to fill it with the effigies.

  Somewhere a board creaked. He stopped and looked at the door.

  There was silence. Then another creak. He took a step towards the door, ready to spring; and then sensed rather than heard that something was moving behind him. He swung round as a panel slid open in the wall and a young man stood framed in the entrance. It was the contemptuous young huntsman, robed in dazzling color and carrying an ornately carved dagger. He raised the wicked blade with a smile of pure pleasure, and slashed it down at Sir James.

  Sir James flung himself to one side. The man came after him, stabbing again. This time the blade sank into the panelling. As it was wrenched free, Sir James braced himself. Again the knife sparkled viciously before his eyes, and this time the young man expected him to dodge; but Sir James jumped forward, tackling him low.

  They went down. The knife skidded along the floor. Sir James slammed out with his fist, pounding into his attacker’s face. But he could not keep it up. The young man was stronger and more active: he couldn’t hold out against him once he was on his feet again.