Kill All Kill All

by Craig McNish

  “Well since you put it like that, I guess I'm in. So when's this going down?”

  “Tonight. After going over the details of past rituals I've got my own idea of how we can make this work. You're at Jane's house now, right? Stay there, I'll get in touch with Anna and Matty and be over in a bit to give you all the low-down.”

  “Er, righto mate. See you soon, then.” The call was disconnected.

  “You don't like this either, do you? I could tell by your voice.”

  “Well I wasn't going to tell him my arse had dropped out, was I? Anyway, it's not like anything is going to happen, is it? We stand out in the middle of nowhere for an hour while Hodgy does his shit and go home. Dead easy, right?”

  “Easy will do, hopefully not dead...”

  *

  The five students were gathered together in Parkes' living room; Hodgson put down on the floor the small stack of papers he'd brought with him and launched into his plan.

  “I can tell you now that ninety-nine percent of what is wrote in these so-called sightings of Mills' ghost is total shite” he said with absolute confidence. “Nearly every single one of them mentions the old windmill – some people even say that's where the murders happened. Well that's impossible, because it wasn't even built then. So everybody's been looking in the wrong place.”

  “And where would your awesome powers of deduction take us?” said Hunter.

  “I would have thought that was obvious, but you are studying at Newcastle uni so I suppose I can make an exception in your case. The story goes that Mills was kept in the jail in Saddler Street and transported up to Dryburn on the day he was hung – that's where they used to carry out all the executions. But public opinion was pretty strong back then and people liked to see for themselves the result of justice being done, which is exactly what happened here. After a day or so, he was brought back to Ferryhill and 'hanged in chains', as they used to call it. In other words, the bloke was hung from the top of a thirty-foot high pole in a metal cage and left there to rot until his bones fell to the ground. When that happened, the bodies were often buried under the stob – that's the name for the pole they used to hang from. Now I couldn't find any confirmation that Mills was actually buried under his stob but I reckon that's our best chance.”

  “And his stob is where, exactly?” asked Annabelle Ford.

  “Got the maps here” said Hodgson. “According to these, and the written records at the time, it was about half a mile outside of Ferryhill on what was then called the Great North Road.”

  “That's the A one six seven, right?”

  “Right” Hodgson replied to Jane's remark. “And the position of the stob, if my calculations are right, is only a bit short of the Thinford roundabout. It could be that site was picked out because they also used to bury hanged people at a crossroads – said it confused their spirits or something. It was only set back a short way off the road and the body faced west, so it was looking at what was then Brass Farm. I think I can get us to the exact place where Mills was buried.”

  “Holy shit” said Harper. “And then what do we do, dig him up or something?” Parkes and Ford looked horrified at the prospect of becoming potential grave-robbers.

  “Nah, nowt like that. One thing that remains pretty much constant through all of these reports is that you have to walk around the site in an anti-clockwise direction thirteen times at the stroke of midnight, but because it's not at the windmill or New Year's Eve, I reckon we should try something a bit different...”

  “Like what?”

  “Getting to that part now, Hunts. Newspaper reports from the day put Mills running into Ferryhill about nine o' clock at night to find Mister and Mrs Brass so he could tell them their kids were dead. That's what time we want to be at the stob, I reckon. And we've got a better chance of success because tonight is the actual anniversary of the day it all went down. But that's not all...”

  “So what else?” Ford asked him.

  “Mills reckoned it was all the work of the Devil. He said the Devil appeared before him in the house before he killed Elizabeth and told him she had to die, so he went back in and killed her. So what's the most famous sign of the Devil?”

  “Six six six” said Parkes.

  “Right. And this year is the three hundred and thirty-third anniversary of the event. If he claimed to be half a Devil, then half the sign might actually be a full one for Mills, right? And not just that, either; the place is now called High Hill House Farm – three Hs. Hunter...Harper...Hodgson...” He pointed to each of the three as he named them. “Has to be more than a coincidence, that.”

  “This all sounds way too perfect” said Ford. “So why is this a good idea again?”

  “Because we get the chance to have our names go down in history” said Hodgson. “We'll be legends in our own right – the only people who ever managed to make Andrew Mills reappear. And all these other stories will be proved to be total crap with ours being the only one that works. There's some sort of rhyme you have to say while you walk round as well. Hang on a minute.” He looked through his pile of papers. “Here we go. Listen to this...”

  “O, Andrew Mills, thou cursed wretch

  “'Tis now the time that you must fetch

  “The blood of three, upon thy knife

  “The blade of which must spare no life.”

  “I thought he used axes to kill them” Parkes was quick to point out.

  “Yes and no” said Hodgson. “He had two axes, and it's believed he used those to kill Jane and then John. He definitely used them to smash his way into the bedroom they were hiding in, and a blow from one of them broke Jane's arm while the second was used to smash John's head in, but he supposedly stabbed Elizabeth to death and maybe used it on the other two as well before they died. He was taken into custody by a platoon of soldiers when it was thought he was the one who had done the killing, and when he was searched they found the blood-covered knife in one of his pockets. But Mills told the coroner that when the Devil spoke to him inside the house, he only mentioned using the knife and not axes. So here's what we do.

  “I've got the exact location of the stob, or as accurate as I can find. We go there for, say, eight-thirty tonight. Matt, bring your camera – we want all of this documented start to finish. Hunts, keep your ears open for any kind of noises, maybe words they used back then that we can't understand. Anna, maybe you could try snapping some photos on your mobile phone – wouldn't hurt to have as much evidence as possible, and they might pick something up that the camera could miss during filming.”

  “So what about me – what do I have to do?”

  “Now's your chance to shine, Jane! Congratulations, you've just landed the starring role in the new Matt Harper production 'The Return of Andrew Mills'. Here's your script – not many lines, but it's a start, right?” Hodgson gave her a copy of the sheet on which the ritual incantation was written, which she took a hold of reluctantly and looked it over.

  “Just one question” she said. “What if this actually works?”

  Nobody said anything. Hodgson just shrugged his shoulders.

  *

  “You sure this is the right place?” Parkes asked as the five students gathered together in a farmer's field, but not quite close enough to the road for the street lights to offer some illumination and maybe a feeling of greater safety.

  “Close as I can guess – and look at this...” Hodgson crouched down and picked up a small piece of battered wood a few inches long. “This might even be a part of the original stob – strange how it just happened to be in the exact place we were looking for.”

  “We're going to look like a right bunch of tits to anybody who walks past, and for that I'm blaming you” Ford told Hodgson. “So let's get this stupid experiment of yours done and over with and get off to the pub for a couple of drinks.”

  “Okay, you got no argument from me there. Get the camera rolling, Matty.”

  “Already am...” Hodgson checked his watch; it was ten to
nine. “You going to do an intro for the camera like, Hodgy?”

  “Er, righto. Right. Today is the twenty-fifth of January, two thousand and sixteen – time is...eight fifty-two pm. We're all here tonight – me, Jane, Anna, Matt and Graham – to mark the three hundred and thirty-third anniversary of the death of Andrew Mills by trying to see if we can make him appear in some way, shape or form by carrying out our own ritual.

  “Loads of the stories regarding sightings of Mills revolve around the old windmill, but because it wasn't built until maybe two centuries after the murders took place I figure it has to be a myth. So we're here at the site of Mills' Stob – and this might even be a part of it.” He held up the piece of wood to the camera. “This ritual is based on the time that Mills was caught and also the day of the murders rather than other assumptions of midnight on New Year's Eve. Jane here is the one who is going to be reading out the incantation and doing the thirteen anti-clockwise circuits of the area – hopefully we'll see or hear something and get it on tape.”

  “This is like a really bad version of the Blair Witch Project...” said a voice off-camera, which belonged to Hunter.

  “Not if we get Mills to appear it won't be” said Hodgson. “Right. Jane, this piece of wood is the stob; at two minutes to nine, start walking round it anti-clockwise and read out the rhyme – make sure you get the words exactly right, okay? Matt, don't even think about pointing that camera anywhere else apart from where Jane is. Anna, you got your phone ready? Hunts, you keep a count of how many circuits Jane has done and let her know when she hits thirteen.” he checked the time again – eight fifty-seven.

  “You ready, Jane?”

  “Er...”

  “Loud voice, exact words, thirteen times. We'll shift back a bit. Right, go for it!”

  Parkes could feel her heart thumping wildly in her chest as she began to walk and recite the rhyme, and yet she wasn't entirely sure why. This was never going to work, and in five minutes they'd be on their way to the pub and giving Hodgson no end of grief for his stupid idea.

  “O, Andrew Mills, thou cursed wretch

  “'Tis now the time that you must fetch

  “The blood of three, upon thy knife

  “The blade of which must spare no life.”

  Parkes kept reciting the words while Hunter kept track of how many rotations she had made. It was five so far...six...seven... Harper kept the camera focussed on Parkes; nothing out of the ordinary yet. And then, the thirteen rotations were finished and Parkes stopped her recital before moving to join the others a few metres away.

  “So what now?” she asked.

  “We wait.”

  “For how long? It's bloody fre...did you feel that?” Ford asked openly of the others.

  Way beneath ground, maybe three metres or more, was the clatter of years-old bones as they began to move around in the soil. The movements were little, but also deliberate and with purpose. The cold earth which surrounded them began to get a little warmer, and then some more, and the bones continued to shift into place.

  “Feel what?”

  “There was kind of a rumble through the ground...”

  “Probably just passing traffic” Hunter surmised.

  “But there isn't any traffic...”

  “Hey, look at the frost on the soil!” It was Harper this time, and he had the camera directed at the piece of wood that Hodgson had stuck into the ground. Harper had no need to elaborate; it was plain to see the rivulets of water and the rising evaporation. Hodgson crouched down and put his hand on the soil.

  “Feels a bit warm...”

  The bones were connected now, just as they should be. Next, flesh and sinew began to form around them; skin was starting to grow, and even the hairs on the thick forearms. Then, a beating heart. Eyes opened, but saw nothing. There was a flutter in the chest; wild at first, but then becoming still. The body gained coverings of material, and boots on its feet, yet it couldn't understand what was happening. It felt frightened, like a small child who had become lost.

  Its hands were moving now, and at first the mind couldn't comprehend what was going on, but it reasoned they were digging. They were trying to find a wait out, to be free. And then, that familiar warmth inside the body – where had that been felt before? So many questions, but what it needed to do first was escape. But escape from where, exactly?

  “There's definitely movement in the ground – I can see it perfectly on the camera. And I don't hear any cars going past...”

  “I think it's time we took off for that drink now” said Hunter, backing away slowly towards the road. Hodgson caught a hold of his arm.

  “Don't be so fucking soft, man! Five onto one, and that's if anything even happ...” Parkes' loud scream stopped Hodgson in his tracks. They all looked to where Harper was pointing the camera. At first it was only the tips of four fingers that were protruding from the frozen ground; then five...six...seven... The left hand now moved around freely at the wrist, trying to find a flat base on which it might settle for leverage. And so Hodgson and his friends watched on in silent amazement, rooted to the spot as hair from the top of a head became visible.

  “This is unreal” whispered Harper, unable to believe what he was witnessing through the eye of the camera his shaking hand was keeping hold of. “Jesus Christ, it's him – it's Mills.” And then, like a newborn that reaches the point where the hardest part of its struggle to enter the world has passed by, the final few seconds became little more than a gentle fall. Exhausted by the effort of coming into the world, Mills emerged fully from the soil and collapsed onto his stomach, not moving, but with his body full of breath and therefore life.

  Hodgson's experiment had worked; Matt Harper was holding the evidence in his hands for all of the world to see.

  *

  TWO

  Five faces stared down at the prone figure of Mills, not quite sure what they should do next.

  “Okay, Hodgy – what do we do now, then?”

  “What are you asking me for?”

  “Well, because all of this was your idea, maybe?” Harper said in response to his original question. “I don't suppose you found a spell that makes him disappear and you already made him appear and didn't really want to...” Hodgson just shook his head.

  “Don't be so fucking soft – five onto one, remember?” Hunter said sarcastically, echoing Hodgson's own sentiments from a short time ago back to him. “So just kill him and we'll jump in if you start to struggle a bit.”

  “What the fu...”

  “Where...am I?” The small, frightened-sounding voice from ground level brought the debate to an abrupt halt. Mills was looking up at them now; their faces either partially or completely hidden by the darkness in which they were standing.

  “We call this place 'earth' – greetings...” Harper said after a short delay. Mills gave him a look that exhibited slight contempt.

  “That much I had realised, stranger. Maybe I should rephrase; where on earth am I?” Now they all looked towards Hodgson to do the talking.

  “This is Ferryhill – in, er, County Durham...in England.” Mills slowly got to his feet and surveyed the horizon as best the light would allow. None of them were ready for what he said next.

  “The landscape, over yonder; it looks different, and yet as I remember it. But the moon appears to be full, and yet it should have just started its first quarter this very day. Today is the twenty-fifth day of January, is it not?”

  “Aye, it's the twenty-fifth...”

  “Then the full moon is not due until the first day of February, that much I am certain of. I do not profess to being the smartest of all men, but I do know from those who are knowledgeable about such things that it moves in cycles thus; new moon, first quarter, full moon, third quarter. I think there may be other parts to these cycles but I know not their names, I'm afraid.”

  “Can you tell me what year it is?” Parkes said, a thought occurring to her.

  “A strange question indeed. Why surely anyon
e you ask would be able be able to tell you that it is sixteen hundred years and eighty-three...”

  “And what's the last thing you can remember?” Mills took a moment to think about this.

  “There was a commotion, up at Brass Farm...robbers. I heard them speaking of killing the children – I had to get help. Elizabeth is only ten years, and not able to defend her life from a grown man. I was running, into Ferryhill – I need to find Mister Brass, maybe a few others to assist. I must have tripped and smashed my head on a rock, I suppose. Do you know where Mister Brass might be?”

  “I know exactly where he is” Hodgson said before Parkes had a chance to reply. “In the graveyard at Kirk Merrington. Been there for quite a while...”

  “You know this for certain? What business does Mister Brass have there at this hour?”

  “Not much, but I can tell you Mrs Brass is there as well.” Hodgson was smirking, the others trying not to laugh. Parkes though was starting to panic.

  “Do you really think it's a good idea to joke around with a...murderer?” She said the last word in little more than a whisper. Luckily Mills seemed not to hear. “We don't want to antagonise him, do we?” Hodgson wiped the smile off his face and nodded. Parkes turned her attention back to Mills, who was now standing but still looked a little unsteady on his feet.

  “It's not sixteen eighty-three any more” she said. “Today is January the twenty-fifth, but the year is two thousand and sixteen. You died over three hundred years ago.” Mills turned sharply in her direction.

  “I beg your pardon? You make claim that I am long dead and yet we stand here and talk as surely as the sun rises in the east each morning? Witches are still burned at the stake in these parts if they are found, you know.” This threat was something of a turning point; Hodgson knew that all of this had been a huge mistake. Why had he ever thought it would be a good idea? He couldn't remember. But a more immediate question posed itself – how were they going to get rid of Mills?