by Guy N Smith
He went outside again. It was snowing properly now; fine flakes, which the wind was beginning to drive horizontally. By the time he reached the garden gate there was a white film building up on his navy blue coat, and the sky was the colour of good old Tipton black-pudding.
He had to stop himself from pacing up and down the road outside. Where the hell were Barratts Garage and the telephone engineer? He checked his watch: three pm. Another hour and it would be dark. Calvert had been a bit vague in his instructions over the phone to the garage. But surely they knew where Hodre was, even if they did have to come from ten miles away. And British Telecom would surely be able to locate every phone by its number. Maybe one or both of them had broken down on the way. Christ, anything and everything was a possibility these days.
Peter mounted the steps leading up to the granary. It was snowing too hard to stand about in the lane and anyway there was a better vantage point from the elevated doorway. At least he thought so until he got up there and saw how the snow was reducing visibility. It was barely possible to see as far as the first bend less than a hundred yards away. The hedges were white all over, and if he stared for too long the gnawing pain at the back of his eyes began again and started off shooting lights. Perhaps he ought to have consulted a doctor; perhaps he had concussion after the blow on his head. Well, it was too late now. With neither telephone nor car he wasn't going anywhere at all.
He lifted the catch on the granary door and stepped inside. At least here he would be out of the cold and the driving snowflakes, and if anyone should arrive he would hear them.
The gloomy interior of the musty-smelling building was somehow soothing. Peaceful, Like a church that shuts out the presence of everyday life and allows one time to relax.
Peter's eyes adjusted to the gloom and he found his gaze wandering over the piles of useless junk. That was when he saw the gun.
At first he thought it was a length of rusty iron piping but as his eyes followed it down he saw the battered stock bound together with wire to repair a crack in the grip. He moved across and extricated it from amidst some loosely coiled rusty barbed wire, almost refusing to believe what his eyes told him.
It was a gun all right, and he knew enough about shotguns to identify it as a 12-bore. Double-barrelled, the twin steel tubes a brown colour that was a mixture of rust and Damascus steel, its hammers shaped like carvings of the devil's ears, an under-lever that needed brute force to open the breech.
He blew down the barrels, then coughed at the cloud of dust which rose up. Sound enough, a credit to the makers, whose name on the centre rib had become obliterated.
The feel of this ancient shotgun in his hands gave Peter a sudden sense of power even though it was empty and useless. Something he'd once read in a cheap western novel had stuck in his memory ever since—'God created men, Sam Colt made them equal'. It applied to shotguns as well as pistols.
It was totally unbelievable that in a space of five minutes not only should Peter discover a gun in apparent working order but that he should also find some cartridges—four unopened canons of them packed into a small wooden crate as though at some time they had been transported from the vendors by rail.
He opened a carton, took one out and examined it closely: a crimson cardboard cylinder with a shiny brass head, a crest on the case—EBL—and the words Maximum. Long Range. Heavy Load. It sounded impressive, powerful! Some traces of damp clung to the outer casings—though the granary itself was dry and the shells felt dry enough. Maybe an hour or two in front of the Rayburn to dry them off...
Peter stepped back outside, the gun cradled under one arm, the case of ammunition in the other. It was snowing hard now, large flakes whipping horizontally from the west, coating the hedges, forming a white layer across the road. There was no break in the heavy clouds, no sign of it easing up. The telephone man wouldn't come today, neither would Barratts. But he didn't bloody well care. If anybody was looking for trouble tonight then they were going to get it!
It was strange how the incentive to work had disappeared, Peter reflected. He felt that if he could have made the effort everything would have come relatively easily. But there was plenty of tune. Christ, he had a year in which to deliver the finished manuscript and a day, even a week, wasn't going to make any difference. There were more important matters to attend to.
Darkness was coming early and the snow had not relented. The kitchen window was gathering a white coating on the outside, so Peter drew the curtains to shut it out. He could just hear the—faint pitter-pattering of flakes against the cushioned glass and the wind howling ceaselessly in the Rayburn chimney.
In a way it was easy, Peter decided. He didn't have to go anywhere, he had plenty of food in the larder—enough to last him a couple of weeks at least. And, most important of all, he had a gun.
After he had eaten he began to clean it up. Some oil on the barrels showed that they were not as rusty as he had at first supposed, and the Damascus steel showed a beautiful grain. The hammers cocked and uncocked with smooth precision, and when he tried one of the cartridges for size it only needed a slight pressure to slide it right into the breach. The ammunition was drying off well on the shelf over the Rayburn.
He re-lit the Rayburn, made himself another cup of coffee and contemplated the weapon on the table. It had changed his whole outlook; the feeling of futility and helplessness had evaporated almost immediately upon discovering the 12-bore in the granary. Suddenly he had become the hunter instead of the hunted. If the lurkers did not come with their flashing lights tonight he was going to feel decidedly cheated.
Eleven-thirty. He went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The glass was plastered with snow and it was impossible to see out. Upstairs, the bedroom window was just as bad, but with some difficulty he prised it open.
Peter's first reaction upon looking outside was one of sheer amazement. The snow had stopped and the skies were clear, with a myriad of twinkling stars that shone down on a pure white landscape. So still and silent—even the wind had dropped—that the whiteness of the snow and the starlight showed up every detail as clearly as though it were bright moonlight, A sparkling arctic panorama.
The raging blizzard had spent itself but in its wake it had left deep drifts. The tops of the hedges which bordered the lane were only just visible above exotic miniature white mountains where the snow had driven through gateways and gaps in the hawthorn. He tried to make out where the Saab was and thought he vaguely recognised its shape beneath the largest drift. Even the dark forbidding mass of forest on the skyline had been transformed into a white ridge that was totally unrecognisable,
'Jesus Christ, what a blizzard!' He spoke aloud, deliberately breaking the silence. Otherwise he might have convinced himself that this was a dead world, that he was dead too, in the frozen hereafter as opposed to the eternal fires.
Beautiful but sinister. It wasn't just the cold that sent a shiver up his back. This was how Janie had felt, that out there somebody was lurking, waiting. He couldn't see them but he knew they were there. He just sensed them.
A movement out of the shadow of a dead elm tree had him tensing and starting to reach for the gun which lay loaded on the old chest below the window. Then he relaxed and almost gave a little laugh of relief. It was only a deer, or to be more precise that magnificent buck which led the herd. Only somehow it wasn't quite so majestic as the last time he had seen it. No longer did it walk proud and erect, head held aloft as it sniffed the air for the slightest sign of danger. Now it had an almost bedraggled, pitiful look about it, a furtive creature that seemed to haul itself through the snow. He watched the way it laboured up the steep slope, dragging a back leg which appeared to be useless except for maintaining its balance. Once it almost fell. It did not stop to scent the atmosphere but was apparently intent on gaining the shelter of the big forest as quickly as possible, as though it was fleeing from—something.
'The poor bugger's hurt.' Subconsciously Peter understood why people living
alone developed the habit of talking to themselves, needing to hear the sound of a human voice and their own the only choice they had.
It was unlikely that the animal's leg was broken, otherwise it wouldn't have been able to use it for support when it reached a flat piece of ground. Most likely it had gashed itself on a strand of barbed wire hidden beneath the snow, or trodden on some broken glass. Whatever its injury, it had transformed the beast into a pathetic creature, a deposed leader who had become an outcast, a loner. Probably another buck had sensed its weakness, fought it and driven it off from the main herd. Now it was fighting to survive against the rigours of a winter which had begun with a vengeance.
Peter felt a sadness as he stood watching it until it was lost to sight. There was no sign of the other deer; presumably they were sheltering in the forest, huddled together for warmth. There were times when nature could be very cruel.
Suddenly Peter realised how cold he was. He tugged at the window sash; the frame shuddered with the sudden impact but he could not make it close. 'Sod it, it's frozen.' He was afraid to slam it again in case the glass shattered. 'Jesus Christ, now I can't shut the bloody window properly!'
He wedged it, hoping that tomorrow, if the sun shone, the ice would melt. Lesson number one, don't open the windows when there's a hard frost, he told himself.
It was too cold to undress properly so he took off his denim jacket and jeans and crawled in between the blankets. The white reflections of the snow outside meant that the room wouldn't get properly dark, and the frosty starlight would be cosy once the bed was warm, he thought; if only Janie had been here life would have been very pleasant.
But then he was dozing; listening; almost afraid of sleep. Which was silly, he told himself, because they wouldn't come tonight. The lanes were blocked, the snow on the fields was too deep to walk through. It had taken the wounded buck all its time to reach beyond the stone circle. Even black magicians were incapable of melting snow to enable them to hold outdoor rites. They'd have to make do with some weird circles and chalk marks on the floor of the living room at home. What the hell did they call it? A pentagram, that was it. Well, they were bloody lucky, because the next time they came back here there was a charge of birdshot waiting for them.
He drifted into an uneasy, unwilling sleep. Fragments of unrelated dreams disturbed him without waking him.
But throughout his subconscious he was listening, picking up faint sounds which were recognisable and could be dismissed: a fragment of ice falling from the partly closed window where it had been dislodged; an owl hooting dismally because there were no small rodents about; the vixen screaming in the distance because her mate had not showed up. Then something heavier, a crunching noise as though heavy booted feet were treading on scattered breakfast cereal.
That was when Peter was jerked awake and knew instantly that there was someone outside. The blizzard had not deterred those who roamed Hodre by night!
13
Peter had to force the window hard to open it, with a sound of crunching and splitting ice that surely would be heard for hundreds of yards around Hodre. He picked up the shotgun and cocked it even as he looked out.
At first he could see nothing except a barren white landscape where nothing moved. Not even a deer this time, nothing dark that stood out starkly against the virgin white background except shadows. And more shadows.
Yet something was moving, something he saw and yet didn't, like ripples in water that disappeared even as one watched them. His eyes narrowed, his flesh goosepimpled. Not even a shape, nothing. It was as though the snow had shifted, but that was impossible because it was frozen solid and there was no wind.
Then he saw it, like a patch of white suddenly puncturing the massive shadow cast by the dead elm at the bottom of the steep slope; not snow, because it moved and it wasn't white enough, more a kind of grey, but it was only visible against a black background. It seemed to glide silently across the frozen surface.
His nerves reacted like taut steel rope under pressure. His whole body went rigid, the shotgun paused half way to his shoulder, his thumb in a cocking action. It was like stepping into a cold store; an icy chill threatened to freeze him into permanent immobility. His brain slowed with confusion, the computer rejecting data because it was impossible to process it, fighting for an explanation where there was no logic.
The shape beneath the elm tree was vaguely human in that it had a head and body rather like a child's attempt to build a snowman. Yet the head tapered to a point and seemed to change shape with each slow movement of the legless body. And suddenly it was recognisable; a figure cloaked and cowled in white raiments, limbs hidden beneath the flowing material, face masked by shadow. Oh God, he didn't want to look on those features for surely they could not be human!
It had stopped, as though it sensed his presence, and turned as though looking back towards the cottage. Peter winced, feeling its malevolent stare with a force akin to the blinding beam which had sent him staggering back from the window on the previous night. And in that instant he knew; he recognised the shape from an artist's impression he'd seen many years ago in a book on ancient religions. There could be no possible doubt in his mind; the locals' fears had been more than rumours based on primitive terror—the thing before him was one of the ancient druids returned to its place of worship in search of yet another blood sacrifice!
Sheer panic broke the spell of petrification and released his trembling limbs from a frozen hypnotism. The shotgun, his only weapon, was futile, but the cold steel in his hands was real and instinct was taking over whilst logic faltered. He saw the shape again, this time against the small sight on the end of the barrels. His forefinger curled round the front trigger.
A deafening roar and a stab of flame, then the recoil threw him back. Instinct again, man's oldest: that of survival. His finger found the second trigger. The flash seemed even more vivid, lightning that briefly turned the snowy landscape a deep orange; the acrid stench of Neoflak gunpowder an instant stimulant that made him stand his ground. Watching.
A cry like that of a wounded timber wolf, an inhuman sound that hung in the still atmosphere, and he saw the cloaked figure lurch, almost fall. Then it was gone, as though its evil contempories had materialised out of the night to snatch it to safety.
Peter was breathing heavily, trembling so that the shotgun barrels vibrated on the frosty window ledge, straining his eyes into the whiteness, searching the shadows. But there was nothing. Whatever the thing out there had been, it was gone.
He pulled the gun inside, closed the window as far as the layers of ice would permit, and found himself extracting the spent cases and reloading, sitting on the bed with the old hammer gun cocked across his knees. If anything moved anywhere he would shoot. And keep on shooting. Bravado. Futility. But without it he knew he would go mad.
It was fully light before Peter ventured from Hodre. His features were white and strained, his square jaw unshaven. With the coming of dawn his terror had lessened but it had not fully disappeared. Which was why he still carried the loaded shotgun.
Clear skies heralded a continuation of the hard frost, his breath clouding as he walked on the frozen snow. Occasionally the crust beneath him gave and he sank in up to his ankles but mostly it supported his weight. He scanned the horizon; just as it had been last night in the starlight, a stark white wilderness devoid of life. Even the scavenging raven had gone elsewhere in search of food.
The going uphill was heavy. Every few yards he had to pause for breath. He realised just how tired he was. No man could have slept after that
The elm stood like a silent sentinel, as if it had seen it all before in its lifetime but taken its secrets with it when the ravaging disease had come. This was the place, about ten yards below its base, some sixty or seventy yards from the house. Oh Jesus God!
Peter found himself backing away, wanting to flee from the stain which had turned the crisp snow into crimson crystals and the trail of droplets going a few yards uph
ill and then petering out. After that the snow was pure white again. Nothing else, no marks except a few indentations that could have been made by that—
Christ, that was it! The blood had come from the limping buck, from the gashed leg that had bled briefly. Ghosts couldn't bleed, anyway.
He was sweating with relief in the cold atmosphere, then chilling. There was still no explanation for the druid-like apparition. Just a spirit that had materialised and then evaporated, the dead returned to the dead: an astral projection of some kind, not even aware of human presence?
Peter turned away and found himself trying to hurry, slipping once on the crisp surface. Fear churned his stomach even in broad daylight, urging him to run. A few hours ago he had thrilled to the challenge, determined to fight. Now he realised how useless that determination had been, for it was impossible to combat dark forces from beyond the grave. And surely that was what he was up against.
He had made up his mind to leave before he got back to the cottage. No way was he going to spend another night there; long before dusk he would be miles away. Even if the car had not been immobilised, there would have been no chance of getting it through the mountainous drifts that blocked the lanes.
There was only one way out: on foot. And that was the way he was going. After the snow had melted he would return for the car and anything else belonging to Janie and himself.
They had beaten him because they were invincible, an intangible evil foe against which he was powerless.
He was leaving. Now!
Peter made it as far as the first bend, picking his footholds across weird unbelievable shapes that the drifts had formed. He had sunk in up to his knees once or twice, but kept going. Only when he reached the huge drift which had been formed across two gateways and some gaps in the hedges did he face up to the impossibility of his task. Sheer volume had prevented the snow from freezing solid; at the first attempt he went in up to his waist. He clawed his way out and found himself lying on top of something which resembled an iceberg.