The mists, with their shadows and ambiguous forms, circled the screaming Beardsmore so furiously he seemed to be at the centre of a nubilous whirlwind. He lashed out wildly and his fists passed through immaterial conformations of limbs and featureless heads. But even as Ash and the others watched, these phantoms took on definition and substance, the limbs evolving clawed hands, the heads acquiring character, blurred faces with dark mouths that screamed at Beardsmore as he screamed at them. And the claws struck at him from that encircling storm, plucked at his clothes so that they became ripped and opened, scratched at his face so that it, too, became ripped and opened. The spectral bodies dissolved, reformed, became absolute, dissolved again, all the while picking at the man who was flesh, striking him, tearing his skin.
Beardsmore roared as a layer was torn from his cheek, from lower eyelid to jaw, revealing the blood-spotted pinkness beneath. The flap of skin that dangled from his forehead was ripped away, the exposed flesh glistening in the candle- and firelight. Shadows passed over it, the spinning continuing. A sliver was stripped from his defensive hand, from wrist to third finger, and he would have hidden both hands inside his clothes had he not needed to protect his head and neck. Like paper tissue, skin shed from temple to cheek, bubbles of blood unveiled by the peeling. The storm wraiths wheeled about him, snatching, seizing, tearing and tugging his casing from him, laying bare the raw meat of his face and hands. His jacket and shirt became shredded so that they hung like rags, and then the skin of his arms and belly was sheared, the pieces that hung down becoming his tattered clothing. Beardsmore lay back on the stone-topped table, his body thrashing, his screeches maddened, and still the demon mob attended him, never relinquishing their claim on his life, on his soul, clawing and pulling, their howling the understudy for his screams, their torture merciless and unrelenting.
‘Dear God in Heaven …’ Phelan crossed himself, and crossed himself again. He seemed mesmerized by the spectacle and it was Ash who shook him this time.
‘Why?’ he shouted over the babble. ‘Why are they tearing him apart?’
Phelan turned his head slowly, but his eyes remained gaping at the horrifying display. ‘He’s a Lockwood,’ Ash thought he heard him say.
The Irishman blinked rapidly and Ash could not be sure if it was to clear his eyes of dust, or to expel the terrible vision. As if with effort, Phelan focused upon Grace.
‘Help me get her away from here, David,’ he said, and although his voice was not raised, Ash heard him perfectly well.
Together they dragged Grace towards the chamber’s entrance, the wind tugging against them as it funnelled through, skeins of fog carried with it, twisting mists that seemed to whisper as they passed by. The hymn had become faint, a distant counterpoint to a raging theme, and images rushed with the flow, their composition travesties of the human form. More drapes were burning, ignited by candles hurled against them, and more grotesques flamed inside the cavities that were their open graves. The fires illuminated the great chamber, revealing ancient and mouldering volumes, arcane and cabalistic scripts, all stacked on shelves within deep alcoves at the far end of the room; there, too, were bottles of various colours and sizes, containing liquids, potions, poisons, mixtures that had the power to prolong life long after death was due, but not the sway to halt the withering and the pain. The flames disclosed, then torched robes that hung from racks, fanciful costumes of clandestine ceremonies. Other relics that were more like instruments of torture than divine paraphernalia began to burn.
The recumbent body of the clergyman, an abdicated shell that continued to twitch as if life yet loitered, lay on the stone floor with blood pumping from the viscous pulp that had once been its head, while crepuscular formations, dim and indeterminate, hovered above and around it like inquisitive spectators. On the table nearby the bloodied and skinless hulk that was Beardsmore convulsed and screeched in the agony wrought by ultimate denudation, his raw limbs beating at the stone beneath him, his protests in voice and movement growing weaker, becoming shivery spasms that eventually reduced to a rasping of breath and a flinching of arms. And still his tormentors were not satisfied: they raked him with phantom claws, popping his eyes from their sockets, burrowing beneath the bones of his stripped breast to reach his failing heart. His last feeble whimpers were pleading that this persecution would soon be over and that the demons would not follow him into whatever domain he was bound for. Or that others of their kind would not await him there.
It only occurred to him as his last rattling gasp was squeezed from his lungs by the host of wintry hands rummaging inside his open flesh that death for him, as it had for other Lockwoods, might mean complete and utter extinction.
Something thundered, and it seemed to be from all around. It felt as if the whole building, from collapsed roof to the cellars below ground, had quivered. Fissures appeared in the walls and masonry fell from the ceiling. There were more jolts, as if after-shocks were rumbling through, and more crashings, these spilling brickwork and falling timber, resounding from above.
Ash and Phelan helped Grace to her feet, for all three had lost balance with this fresh jolt, the girl falling to her knees, Phelan lurching to one side. Grace tensed, as though some alertness had returned with the impact.
She pulled back, trying to wrench herself from the two men. ‘My father…’
‘He’s dead, Grace, you can’t help him!’ Ash shouted as he tightened his grip.
She turned in his arms, struggling to break free. ‘No, we can’t leave him here!’
‘Listen to David, girl,’ Phelan told her, holding her fast from the other side. ‘There’s nothing we can do for your father now. He sought some kind of redemption, that’s why he allowed me to bring him here. He understood, d’you see? He knew the price that had to be paid.’
She shook her head fiercely. ‘He wasn’t part of this …’ she began to say, but memories were no longer impeded and they flooded her mind with their ugly truths. She sagged again, but Ash was there to catch her. ‘David, I’m so sorry.’
‘You’re not to blame, Grace. You didn’t know.’
‘I’m so sorry …’ she repeated.
A strip of dirtied skin tore from her cheek.
‘David, we must get her away from here!’ Phelan pulled at them both, directing them towards the antechamber.
Something struck Ash’s back, a brick or timber, he couldn’t be sure which, and he ignored the pain. He pushed Grace ahead of him, one arm around her waist, a hand at her elbow, Phelan leading the way. Streamers of mist skimmed against their faces, searing like sharpened ice, and the conflagration behind them spread. At the chamber’s far end the old books exploded into flame, creating their own inferno.
It was Phelan who faltered this time, for amid the turmoil of vague and mutable apparitions that crowded the opening in the wall, among that inconsistent pattern of human semblances, was a small figure more corporeal than the rest. The boy stood before the curled dead thing that littered the entrance floor and he watched them gravely as if unaware of the turbulence around them, his pellucid eyes on them alone.
Grace gave a start and Ash was not sure if he heard her say, ‘Timmy,’ or if his own mind had picked up the thought. She shrunk back and he had to hold her firmly.
The image began to fade almost immediately, the swirling mists claiming it for their own, the vapours swelling, then dispersing around them into the chamber.
Phelan hesitated no longer. With a shout of encouragement and a tightening of his grip on the girl’s wrist, he led them on. They stepped over the corpse, itself vague in the mists that now poured like dry ice into the room behind, and made for the stairs leading to the metal door above. The reverberations continued, rumblings that shook the very floor beneath them, loosening shales of rotted cement and plaster, making their way treacherous; and all the while the howling persisted, driving them onwards so that they quickly reached the staircase. Phelan went first, hauling Grace up behind him, with Ash keeping her steady from beh
ind. They could hardly see the steps because of the fog that streamed over them like some fouled waterfall, rippling through the doorway above as if sucked down by some subterranean whirlpool. Grace did not resist, but neither did she assist their passage; a peculiarly livid strip scarred the grime that covered her face.
Phelan reached the top step and paused only to dip into his jacket pocket and bring out a slim, black torch. He twisted its head and a pencil-thin light sliced through the gloom; he turned the head again and the beam broadened, filling the hallway beyond the door.
‘Careful, now,’ he told his companions. ‘We have to hurry, but it’s dangerous out there - the floor isn’t safe. Watch where you tread.”
Ash did not respond - he was already aware of the hall’s dangerous condition - but came through the door behind Grace, his hold on her never relaxing for a moment. The bedlam from below quietened and he was at least grateful for that. White light suddenly strobed from doorways and ceiling holes along the wide hall and a second or two later there was a boom of distant thunder.
‘Follow me, quickly,’ Phelan ordered, grabbing Grace’s wrist again. He journeyed the torch beam along the floor, searching out the hazards ahead, wary of the pits he knew were beneath the fog flow, then started off, following the course he had set with the light. They listened to the cracking of timber and the rending of stone as they made their way along the cluttered hallway and each time one of them touched a wall, they felt the trembling of the house itself. They took large, careful steps over debris, the Irishman testing each footfall ahead, stopping when he was unsure to probe the mist with the light before continuing. Grace was ushered along like some blind person, for once again she had retreated into the trauma of her own memories and imaginings. Occasionally one of them tripped, but never did they linger to nurse any pain. They kept moving, lightning dazzling them each time it invaded the gutted mansion, its ensuing thunderclap closer on every occasion and making them cringe, so afraid were they that its roar would bring down the fragile shell around them. Once, when Ash lost his balance he struck at the nearest wall and its surface crumbled at his touch. It was as if nothing was firm here, that all had become pulp beneath a decaying skin, the vibration that ran through its substance abetting the disintegration. He wiped his hand against his trousers as if afraid it might be contaminated.
He lunged past Grace when the flooring beneath Phelan suddenly sagged and the Irishman began to pitch forward. He caught him in time and yanked him back, all three of them frozen there while they listened to the creaking of boards and the falling of invisible objects. They moved to the opposite wall and, with their backs against it, edged past the danger area. A shower of dust fell in front of them and when Phelan pointed the torch at the ceiling they saw that it, too, was beginning to bow.
Grace gave a small cry and Ash couldn’t be sure if it was because of the danger overhead, or because she had hurt herself against something in the dark. There was no time to find out.
‘We’d better make a run for it,’ he said, leaning close to Phelan.
‘I’m thinking you’re right, I’m sure the worst of this is behind us, anyways.’
Without further word, they moved ahead, pulling Grace along with them, hurrying their steps, breaking into a trot when the way ahead seemed clearer. With a great grinding and screeching, this joined by thunder outside, the ceiling behind them caved in, almost as if their clattering footsteps had been the final influence. Noise and billowing dust chased them into the great hall, and they kept running, leaping over debris and fallen timbers, making for the big open doorway. As lightning flared once again Ash glanced up and saw something so terrifying his knees almost buckled under him. His throat constricted so that he could not cry a warning to the others.
The night sky was clearly visible through the jagged floors and rooftop as the lightning flooded the interior of the gutted shell, and in that bleached fulguration the whole of one wall, almost from ground to roof, had seemed to lean inwards with a deep and ominous groaning.
Grace fell in front of him and with a strength born out of panic, he picked her up, half-carrying, half-dragging her towards the entrance. Her body jerked and tiny screams escaped her, but Ash kept her going, never loosening his grip, no matter what pain was caused. She tried to pull away, but he forced her on, no time even to be puzzled at her resistance. Phelan was already at the doorway, just a few paces ahead, shouting something, urging them on. He was reaching a hand towards them.
Lightning flared, the thunder boom instantaneous, and in that blaze Ash saw that the Irishman’s face was set in an albescent contortion of horror. He was staring at Grace.
All three of them went through the door at once, too fast, too disordered. They stumbled out onto the terrace area before the steps, their legs finally giving way, their exhaustion asserting itself, so that they fell in a heap.
Ash rolled over onto his back, gasping great lungfuls of tainted air, his chest heaving, a dull ache in his head from the blow he’d received earlier. The fog flowed over the stairs into the building through the doorway, low to the ground, elsewhere creeping up walls, pouring over the sills of glassless windows. The half-moon had broken through clouds that boiled and furled in the night sky, momentarily casting its eerie sheen over the landscape and the broken façade of this once-grand place.
‘Thank God,’ he said breathlessly, his eyes closing as if in prayer. ‘It’s done, it’s over.’
More concussions rumbled deep inside the ruin and Ash felt tremors run through the stone he lay upon. Lightning stutter-flashed overhead again, its thunder cracking the air so fiercely it seemed the earth itself shook. The clouds were bulky and black with unshed rain, their silver edges twisting raggedly, fusing and separating, never still. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat steadied, and he forced calmness upon himself. They were safe. As long as they did not linger here, the ghosts and the perversions of Lockwood Hall could no longer harm them. The price of retribution had been terrible, but it was paid. The Lockwood evil was finished. Grace was free from a burden she had never realized was hers.
He propped himself up on an elbow and looked towards her. She lay with her back to him and he could see the rise and fall of her shoulders, her outline defined by the moonlight. The Irishman lay just beyond her, his torch gone now, discarded or broken. He was very still.
Ash reached towards the girl.
And stopped, his fingers outstretched, when her body jumped and she gave a sharp cry.
‘Grace …?’ he said, his voice low, uncertain.
She cried out again, a kind of agonized yelp.
He pushed himself up onto one knee, his hand still reaching towards her.
This time she shrieked, her legs kicking out as if in spasm.
He hurried to her side, half-crawling, half-crouching, and he spoke her name again.
Her scream rang through the night.
‘Grace!’ He tugged at her shoulder, pulling her round to face him. Her body jumped beneath his hand.
Just a few feet away, Phelan was sitting upright, his head turned in their direction.
Grace twisted violently, her cry full of pain.
‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ Ash felt helpless as he knelt beside her, his hands close to her, but no longer touching, afraid any pressure might cause more pain.
Her arms struck out, hitting his, and she squirmed and flinched, sucking in sharp breaths. ‘David!’ she screamed. ‘David, help me!’
He held her shoulder and tried to pull her to him, but she twisted away, her body bending double, her head touching her knees.
Phelan’s shadow, cast by the moon, fell over them and he, too, tried to hold her. Clouds reeled across the light and they were in darkness once more; but still they heard her moans and felt her writhing. Ash clung to her, desperate to help, afraid she would hurt herself in her frenzy.
‘What’s happening to her?’ he demanded of the Irishman, as if he surely must have the answer.
‘I thought she’d be
safe out here.’ There was grief in his words, grief and pity. And his own desperation. ‘I thought we’d got her away in time. Lord Jesus, don’t let this be so!’
Her screams had become unremitting and they tore through Ash’s senses. He had to do something, he had to help her, he couldn’t let her suffer this way. He tried to lift her, his hands trembling with panic, but she wrenched herself away from him, falling back onto the stone and lying there, her body arched, her fingers curled into claws, gripping the night itself.
Lightning blazed, a fitful coruscation that washed everything in its glaring, sterile light. He was oblivious to the thunder that so quickly followed, for in those brief moments of utter illumination he was aware only of the wounds of her open flesh and saw only the peeling of her skin, the delicate tissue strips ripped from her face, from her neck, from her breasts, and heard only her screams, her pleadings, the calling of his name.
Darkness once more, but the sight had fused into his brain. He pressed his hands against her face as if to hold the skin there, to prevent its tearing, and he felt the slivers, light and flimsy, brushing past his own flesh, his efforts useless against the unseen hands that ripped her body. She beat at him, as though he were the assailant, and screamed her suffering, her terror, and she squirmed beneath him, trying to rise, perhaps to run and hide, to escape this ruthless mutilation.
A prayer was being said, an incantation repeated over and over, and he knew it was the Irishman imploring his God for help. But there was no help. Even when Ash lay over her, shielding her body with his own, the scaling continued, and he knew - oh, dear God, he knew - it would not stop until she was rendered as naked as Beardsrnore, exposed and bloodied, her flesh raw, peeled, her body scarcely human. His screams joined hers, and when the moon showed through again, his tears blurred the sight of her.
He tried to keep her there, but her agony was too intense and it had made her too strong. She slid from beneath him, one of her flailing arms catching the bridge of his nose, stunning him and knocking him aside so that for a few precious moments he lay helpless on the terrace. She stood over him, hands to her face, her head raised as if to howl at the moon, and he thought it was the rags of her clothing that fluttered in the night breeze, but realized instantly that she was almost naked and that it was her skin that flapped and fell away in rags.
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 38