The Ghosts of Sleath

by James Herbert

  Phelan had moaned aloud, for the vision raged in his mind. He had thrown the journal from his lap, the loose papers scattering over the stone floor as he had found them. Then he had sunk to his knees, unable to continue, and his prayers had been both for those lost innocents and for the future of Sleath itself.

  Eventually, when the images of screaming children and youngsters disappearing beneath those unsettled black waters, their little hands grasping at the night air before sinking from sight, had been forced from his mind - or at least, suppressed enough for him to pull himself together - he had taken his place back on the solitary chair in the chapel.

  The horrors were not yet over, and would not be for him until he laid down the last Lockwood journal; but he had steeled himself against whatever else lay ahead inside those tainted pages. Mercifully, Sleath appeared to have gone through a period of normality - or disguised normality - under the control of succeeding Lockwoods. The evil had been either subdued or entirely covert in the more civilized years that followed and the records were like any others that might be found in old church chests throughout that part of the country: parish accounts, baptisms, weddings, deaths - all commonplace for this type of rural village.

  Yet … Yet as he continued to comb through the faded texts he could not rid himself of the revulsion. No matter how ordinary, how mundane, the documentation, dark undertones seemed to permeate the very pages under his gaze. He wondered if his thoughts, his imaginings, were still influenced by earlier revelations and, in truth, he couldn’t be sure anymore. He was wearied, he was sickened, and by then his extra faculty, his sixth sense, was dimmed. But the inner coldness that had gripped him throughout his searches took firmer hold when he reached journals and records dealing with an extensive period in the eighteenth century.

  These records were neatly kept, their script tidy, almost fastidious. He soon discovered, however, that the mind behind these later chronicles was as unhinged and as deviant as that of the earlier Lockwoods. Sebastian Lockwood was squarson to Sleath, both minister and squire, governing his parishioners with a fist of iron and also, like his predecessors, seeming to take special delight in listing all punishments meted out to wrongdoers, or to those who offended him. In one instance two poachers had been caught on the squarson’s land in the early hours; Lockwood had the intruders beaten, then set his dogs on them. Their bodies had been ripped to pieces by the pack while Sebastian Lockwood and his cronies had watched and made wagers as to which poacher would fall first. Merciless enough behaviour for a so-called man of the cloth, but to record the event with such relish was more than just eccentric. ‘The beasts had their fill,’ the script informed, ‘and greatly enjoyed the human flesh.’

  Phelan’s hand had trembled on the page as he read the line. What kind of master would order, then take bets on, such a cruel punishment? Clearly the Lockwood ‘sickness’ had prevailed through the centuries.

  Other poachers had been treated in similar fashion, although only a few were allowed to be killed by the dogs. Instead survivors were locked into the stocks on the village green and left there to bleed to death as an example to the rest of the community. Another miscreant, a miller called Samuel Bridgestock, whose crime was to declare false accounts - apparently a small part of his ground corn was being sold for private profit rather than for the benefit of Sebastian Lockwood, who owned all rights to the water mill and its produce - was lashed to the millwheel itself while his family and villagers were ordered to watch. ‘Ten revolutions,’ was Lockwood’s sentence on the miller, ‘and if he doth live, then so shall his sin be atoned for.’ It was gloatingly recorded that Bridgestock had drowned beneath the waters on the fifth turn of the wheel.

  And so it went on, this list of names and punishments, as if Lockwood took delight in each ‘crime’ as well as its discipline, as if their sum was the inheritance of future generations of Lockwoods. Phelan wondered how such atrocities could have been perpetrated with apparent immunity in what was supposed to be the Age of Enlightenment, when reforms such as equality before the law, religious toleration, the abolition of serfdom and the reduction of noble and clerical privilege were being advocated and even accepted by many despot monarchs on the Continent. Was Sleath so remote from the rest of the world? Or was Lockwood rule so powerful that no one dared whisper against it?

  He went on to find references to Sir Francis Dashwood, a familiar name to him and, so it would seem, a close associate of Lockwood. That hardly came as a surprise, for the Irishman was aware that Dashwood was notorious in this area in the 1700s as an occultist and founder of the infamous Hellfire Club, a clandestine organization that engaged in satanic rites and aristocratic dissipation. A suitable friend and ally to one such as Sebastian Lockwood.

  A cloud must have passed between the high windows behind the altar and the dying sun, for the colours of the stained glass darkened, became a dull mix of browns and greys. Phelan looked around to see that other windows had dimmed. He hadn’t realized the day had gone.

  Sebastian Lockwood’s journals and lists had filled many books, but in the last few the writing had degenerated to an untidy, erratic script. In places it seemed that the squarson had stabbed at the pages with his pen, for there were indents and even holes in the paper itself, with ink blots rendering certain words illegible. Jagged lines crossed out whole passages of text and often sentences were garbled, incomprehensible, as if his fevered brain was no longer able to translate his own thoughts. Phelan could only wonder if madness as well as cruelty was inherent in the Lockwood genes.

  These latter journals aroused such fresh repulsion in him that he was almost physically sick, for they disclosed Sebastian Lockwood’s necrophilic obsessions. Difficult to understand though the scrawled handwriting had become, Phelan quickly realized that this madman, like the first Lockwood of Sleath, had conducted experiments on cadavers in order to regenerate them; but, unlike his forebear, Sebastian Lockwood had gone even further, in fact copulating with the dead bodies, be they those of adult male and female, or - and this was where Phelan had retched and almost vomited over the open pages on his lap - with children.

  Worse than the reading of the words were the sensations that leapt from them. He tried to close his mind against the dreadful images, but still they invaded, spreading like a virulent infection, pushing rejection and all other thoughts aside. He had terrible, abhorrent visions that caused his stomach to heave once more and his body to shake as if he were in seizure; then he was on his feet, the journal slipping from his lap onto the chapel floor where it lay with other scattered papers.

  He had whispered, not shouted his outrage, the harsh hissing sounds loud enough within the confines of the chapel. And after a while he had left that place and all the depraved works it contained.

  He faced the modest altar, his shock, his anger, his exhaustion, his despair, all conspiring to drain him of resolve. Had the sickness ended with Sebastian, was he the last in the line of Lockwood degenerates? Or was there more evil to come?

  It was a tiny sound at first, the scraping of stone against stone. He inclined his head, wondering where the noise had come from.

  The church had become dark - had he really been here that long? - but no one else had joined him, that was perfectly clear. He took a peek at his wristwatch and blinked his eyes several times to focus; it was no good, he’d spent too much time peering at almost impenetrable handwriting and his eyes were blurred with fatigue. Glancing up at the windows he realized either the sun had sunk behind the hills, or the sky had become completely overcast.

  He reached for the back of the bench seat in front to pull himself up and as his fingers curled around the edge he thought he noticed the shadows around him perceptibly deepen. That couldn’t be so. Nightfall was a steady, creeping thing - at least it was in this part of the world - and shadows obeyed its rule. It must be his tired old eyes, too much reading in poor light, and too much squinting at scrawled handwriting. Had to be the answer. But why was it so cold? Not just cool in the
way all stone buildings were, despite high temperatures outside, but tomb-cold, the kind of cold that chills a person’s innards, stiffens and tingles the spine.

  This was nothing new, though, was it? He’d felt this kind of cold in certain locations before. Haunted places. Rooms or houses that needed exorcizing.

  Stone grated against stone again. This time the sound was louder. And longer.

  Oh dear Saviour. He knew where the sound came from.

  He felt the stiffness in his spine, that tingling stiffness, travel up to the back of his neck where the small hairs themselves became rigid. Well, isn’t that in the best tradition? he asked himself. Aren’t the sphincter muscles supposed to loosen now, wasn’t that the way of these things? They seem firm enough to me, so I don’t suppose I’ll be soiling the underwear, thank you.

  His smile, raised to reassure only himself, was little more than a twitch of his lips.

  The twitch was replaced by a grimace when the next sound was a grinding of stone against stone, as though a slab were being pulled away from its base.

  ‘Oh dear Saviour.’ It was not a thought this time, it was a spoken plea.

  He stared towards the open archway to the little chapel where the husk of Sir Gareth Lockwood lay.

  Oh no, this was not possible. This sort of thing did not happen outside the tales of Edgar Allan Poe. All his experiences with the paranormal and psychic phenomena, gained over many years, reliably informed him that corpses - especially bits of dried skin and bone - did not try to leave their resting place by their own efforts. A spirit might return, but the dead most definitely did not get up and walk, nor push aside great slabs of stone.

  The sound stopped.

  And Phelan began to rise to his feet.

  This was all in the mind. He’d scared himself witless with the reading of those accursed journals. The sounds were his own imaginings, just like the darkness inside this place. He’d allowed the lunacy of the writings to influence his own mind.

  And what was that now? A dragging of a foot across the floor? Get a grip on y’self, you ol’ fool.

  Eyes still watching the opening to the chapel, Phelan stooped slightly to pick up his cane. He began to edge his way along the pew towards the centre aisle.

  Of course it was his own imagination, but no point in staying here. There was much to be done this night; leastways, much to be undone. It was by no means an excuse, there really was someone he needed to see.

  Phelan never once glanced away from the dark - the pitch black - entrance to the chapel.

  So if you’ll pardon the impoliteness, I’ll be on my way, he found himself silently saying, as if by keeping this whole experience within the realms of light-hearted banter it would make it unreal.

  Nausea clutched at him again, this time fear the instigator and not disgust. Almost at the end of the pew, he bent forward, grabbing at the back of the seat in front for support. He held himself there, doubled over and swallowing bile, reluctant to vomit inside a house of God. To reaffirm it was still a house of God, he made the Sign of the Cross.

  ‘… Father, Son, Holy Ghost,’ he murmured.

  A dizziness kept him there.

  ‘I’m creating this meself,’ he said in a whisper. ‘It’s me own fright that’s the cause.’ The thing in there is dead, eedjit, and nothing on this earth could bring it back. ‘Eedjit,’ he reiterated, this time in a whisper. He’d opened his mind to all manner of aberration and atrocity that day, and this was the result: over-tired, over-anxious, and as the youngsters might say, over-the-top. Get a grip on y’self, man.

  He pushed himself upright. And saw a shadow within the blackness of the chapel opening. How a shadow could be seen within pitch blackness was not a question he wished to ask himself at that point; rather, he felt it better just to be on his way.

  The shadow moved, as if emerging from a cloak of its own substance, and the Irishman stumbled into the aisle.

  It was more of a hobble than a trot when he turned from the front of the church and headed towards the main door, but at least he was moving. If he lacked dignity in his haste, then who was to know, who was to see? Nobody but that … thing … behind him …

  He soon reached an interruption in the rows of pews, a cross-aisle that led to the arches and the porch door beyond. He almost tripped, and the cane cracked against the floor ahead of him, helping him keep his balance. He wanted to look over his shoulder, he had a great desire to see what was emerging from the chapel; but he refused himself permission. If there was something following him, best not to know, better to get away from there just as quickly as he could. After all, the dead did not walk, so there was no point in looking anyway, no point at all.

  He lurched round the last pew in the row, still refusing to look over his right shoulder even though … even though … there in the periphery of his vision … something was … something really was …

  … moving …

  … shuffling …

  … coming after him …

  He plunged into the greater gloom beneath the arches and, dark though it was, the big door that opened into the porch was visible, a black mass in the shade, a good, stout shape, solid, protection from the hordes, guardian of God’s keep …

  Phelan realized he was gibbering, if in mind only, but what did it matter as long as it kept his thoughts from what was there in the church with him, the thing that surely was a figment of his imagination, yet somehow, in some way, had followed him from the old knight’s tomb.

  He reached the door, practically blundering into it, a hand smacking against the rough wood. His palm numbed, he felt for the iron ring that needed to be twisted to turn the lock.

  He found it - and it would not turn.

  Dropping the cane so that he could use both hands, the Irishman tried again. Still it seemed stiff, unturnable …

  Ridiculous. He’d had no problem with it when he’d entered St Giles’. Panic was doing this. It required a knack, a special way of twisting the ring.

  He felt the presence behind him, a slow, deliberate movement along the cross-aisle. He heard the shuffle, feet dragging across stone, and he heard … couldn’t be, couldn’t be, the dead had no need … he heard air being drawn in and exhaled, a rough, uneven respiration as if disintegrated lungs had too many holes in them and the rotted throat was too dry, too coarse, too flaky …

  He half-turned his head - only half-turned, because he didn’t want to see the black shape, the centuries-old husk preserved by its icebox of stone, didn’t want to confirm his suspicions that this dead creature from his imagination was truly behind him - and caught sight of something - something, nothing definite, nothing you could call a real thing - lumbering after him.

  No! Impossible!

  He fumbled with the iron ring. It gave an inch or so and he twisted harder. It turned all the way and he heard the click of metal. He pushed against the door, stupidly, foolishly, feeling whatever it was behind him drawing closer, and closer. He used all his strength, his wrists shaking, his shoulder against the wood.

  The dead don’t breathe, his mind silently screamed, so why can I hear it, why can I feel it, why can I smell its fetid scent?

  And why could he sense a bony hand reaching towards him, scraps of thin, crispy flesh falling like sparse confetti from it to litter the floor?

  ‘Oh Mother Mary …’ he whined and then remembered the door opened inwards.

  He pulled, cracking the door against his knee, then slid through, slamming it shut behind him. He thought he heard something scrape against the wood on the other side.

  Phelan did not wait inside the porch. The cold here was as deep as a freezer’s and he had the irrational fear - as irrational as being chased by the dead - that his limbs would be too rigid to move if he remained much longer. Besides, there really was no incentive to stay.

  Two steps took him to the outer door and this time there was no fumbling with the handle. The door opened easily and he staggered out to collapse onto the gravel path outside
. Still he did not stop; he crawled through the graveyard, scraping his knees and hands against the gravel, all the while telling himself that this was madness, that there really could not have been any ghostly stalker back there in the church, it was entirely in his own overwrought imagination, a sudden aberration of the psyche brought on by the horrors he had subjected himself to that day. Spirits, evil or otherwise, did not come in this form - they did not move tombstones, they did not breathe, they did not give chase. Madness. Madness. Madness!

  His mind being on other things, he failed to notice the mist around him.

  33

  THE TRANSITION FROM sleep to wakefulness was abrupt. One moment Ash’s eyes were closed, the next they were wide open and staring up at the ceiling.

  He lay still, regathering his senses, for a second or two his mind a blank sheet. And then it came to him, a sudden recognition of events and circumstances. He shut his eyes again, raising a hand to cover them, struggling to bring some order to the thoughts that flooded in.

  He began to understand.

  Ash uncovered his eyes and wondered why the room was so dark. How long had he slept?

  Rising from the bed, he went to the window and drew back the curtains. His body tensed when he saw the fog outside, a yellowish, curling mist that all but obscured the houses and village hall on the other side of the green. It turned and drifted, lazy in movement, somehow sinister in texture. Its unearthliness was heightened by the absolute silence out there, a total lack of normal activity. No footsteps or voices, no birds calling to each other, and no traffic; even the inn itself was bereft of the usual muffled tones of customers in the bar below.