A Weaving of Ancient Evil

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  Lisa kept to the shadow of the bushes that skirted the wall of the house – great mounds of hydrangea and red leafed cottinus threw their shadows deep and gave a modicum of cover. She reached the kitchen door and turned the handle. It was locked. She swore under her breath and turned her attention to the windows.

  To the right of the kitchen door was a small brick built extension. There was a sash window slightly open, just a narrow gap but enough for her to curl her fingers under the window. She lifted but the window refused to budge. She needed something to use as a lever, sure that if she could just move it a fraction it would loosen the window sufficiently for her to climb in. She looked around at the flowerbed. Some of the flowers, the hollyhocks and delphiniums, were staked to support them, but none of the canes looked sturdy enough... unless... she had noticed a stake at the back of the bed, thicker than the others. She reached out and grabbed it with both hands, and it took all her strength and a lot of rocking it back and forth to remove it from the ground.

  When it finally came free she nearly gave a whoop of triumph. It was a piece of wood about two inches in diameter and four feet long. It just slipped into the gap at the bottom of the window.

  She rested her weight on it, but the window remained stuck. In desperation she yanked the bar savagely, and with a squeal of protest the window shot upwards, slamming against the window frame hard enough to make the glass rattle.

  Well, if no one heard that it would be a miracle, she thought, but no lights came on in the house and when she listened she heard nothing.

  She was hoping it was she who encountered Isabella Senice first. The reason she was prepared to come down here alone in the first place was because she had done a lot of reading over the past few days, and she was convinced now that she could put an end to Isabella’s terrible reign.

  And there was more. The more she had time to dwell on it, the more she was convinced that she and the witch were connected in some way. She couldn’t even explain it satisfactorily to herself but, since her dream, she had been aware of Isabella Senice lurking somewhere in her sub-conscious – never solid enough to picture or grasp, but always hiding in the corner of her mind, in the dark recesses she never looked.

  She climbed through the open window and found herself in some kind of storeroom. The walls were lined with racking and shelves, and the shelves were laden with small parcels, neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied tightly with string. The parcels were of differing sizes and shapes, but none of them were very large. They differed also in age. Some of them were crisp and fresh and could have been tied yesterday, while others were dust-stained, the paper fading, the string yellowing.

  She walked across to one of the shelves and picked up one of the older parcels. It wasn’t particularly heavy. There was a table in the centre of the room. She put the parcel down and started to untie the string, all the while alert for any sounds coming from elsewhere in the house.

  She struggled with the knot for a while, and finally unravelled it. The paper was so old it tore easily, spilling the parcel’s contents onto the table.

  It was mainly clothes – a pair of trousers, a white shirt and a grey pullover. There was a pair of black, old fashioned looking shoes, quite small, and a leather wallet. She opened the wallet. There were some banknotes, but old ones she didn’t recognise, including an orangey-brown one that promised to pay the bearer ten shillings. There was a small printed card in the wallet that told her that the owner, John Franklin, had a dental appointment scheduled for August the fifteenth. It didn’t specify a year, but Lisa guessed it was for several decades ago.

  There were other things in the parcel, a small silver ring, a paperback book dated 1955, and a St Christopher that looked to be made of gold. The parcel was a fragment of John Franklin’s life. She could imagine him coming to stay here, some time back in the 1950’s, perhaps sleeping in the same room she had. And what then? Had the same fate befallen him as had befallen Tim, Cat, Susan and Sean? Lisa thought it highly likely.

  She looked around at the parcel-lined walls. There were hundreds of the brown-paper bundles. Hundreds of lives stored away in this dingy room. Evidence that Isabella’s appetite was voracious!

  She left the sad little bundle on the table and went across to the door. To her relief it wasn’t locked. She marvelled at Isabella’s arrogance. She was so confident in her powers and her ability to vanquish all who stood before her, that she didn’t lock away the evidence of her past crimes. Lisa wondered how the disappearance of so many people could have been so easily explained away, if indeed the authorities came looking. But then so many young people disappeared every year. Dissatisfaction with their home-lives, problems at school, bullying by their peers were all strong reasons for people to quietly slip away and to start a new life somewhere else.

  A friend who worked as a secretary at the local police station had told her the statistics once of the number of young people who ran away from home, and never again made contact with their families. The number was staggering. The parcels on the shelves in the storeroom represented only a tiny fraction of that number. It wasn’t surprising that Isabella Senice was so confident that she would never be discovered.

  She opened the door quietly. As she stepped out the room she got the briefest glimpse of Roger DeMarney’s smiling face as his fist came scything down, knocking her into oblivion.

  Steve came out of the study and closed the door behind him. The study, like the rest of the downstairs rooms at the front of the house, was empty. He stared up at the staircase. There was only an intimidating darkness to see at the top of the stairs, and the thought of climbing into that blackness filled him with dread.

  ‘Steve! Help me!’

  It was Billy’s voice, coming from above, but so faint it was barely audible. His brother’s voice sounded terrified, and the worst thing for Steve was that he couldn’t respond to it, couldn’t call back to reassure his brother without revealing his presence in the house.

  Gritting his teeth against the darkness he started to climb the stairs. It was only when he was nearly at the top that the realisation hit him. How did Billy know he was in the house? There was no way that he could know, and yet he had called out to him specifically. He hesitated on the stairs unsure whether to proceed or to turn back.

  He decided to retrace his steps back down, to perhaps meet up with Lisa, when he heard another sound.

  Further along the landing came the sound of a woman laughing.

  He crept on tiptoe along the landing. The sound was coming from what had been Tim’s room. He stopped outside the door and listened. She was still laughing, but the sound was distant and tinny, as though she was enclosed in some kind of echo chamber. He took a step forward and looked into the room.

  For a moment he thought the room was deserted. The bed had been stripped and there was no sign of any of Tim’s personal belongings...

  Except one.

  His laptop computer sat on the desk, its screen filling the room with a cold glow. As he approached the laughter grew louder. And then he got a good look at the screen.

  The screen contained a close-up image of Sarah Delacourt’s face.

  ‘Hello, Steve,’ said the face on the screen. ‘Welcome back. We’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘But how...’

  ‘Computers are such wonderful machines. Sad really that ordinary humans can’t use them to their fullest extent, whereas Isabella and myself can. Wouldn’t you say this is truly interactive?’

  Steve took a step forward, bringing his face closer to the screen. He could barely believe what he was seeing.

  ‘I’ve been looking through the report on Isabella that Roger and I wrote all those years ago. When I think of the work that went into it. How concerned we were then that Isabella be stopped, and how wrong we were! Black magic, necromancy, the transmigration of souls, she was an expert in all the black arts... Still is, of course. You really have to meet her.’

  ‘Pass,’ Steve said, and started to ba
ck away.

  ‘But I insist!’ Sarah Delacourt said, and Steve could only watch, mesmerised, as she started to emerge from the screen.

  Her head came first, pressing against the glass, stretching it like plastic film. She was grinning at him evilly. In a movement he could barely follow, her arms exploded from the screen, her perfectly manicured hands gripping the material of his jacket.

  He tried to pull away, stepping back and tugging at his jacket, but the woman held on, half in - half out of the screen.

  And to his horror he found it impossible to resist her as gradually he was pulled closer and closer towards the computer.

  21

  As Sarah Delacourt pulled him closer and closer to the computer screen, his face was brought to within inches of hers. It was then he got the strangest feeling that he wasn’t looking at a face at all, but more a picture of a face... a memory of a face. There was nothing distinct about the features, no lines or wrinkles, no moles or blemishes. It was like the face of Roger DeMarney – bland, characterless, perfect in almost every way! It was a face without a conscience –a face without a soul.

  The pull toward the computer was relentless. He found his feet slipping on the Oriental rug, sliding across the polished floorboards. He couldn’t resist much longer. He wrestled with the fingers gripping his jacket, but it was like trying to prise away steel claws.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something that might offer his only hope of survival. Tim had left the computer with its battery on charge, and the thin cable was still attached to the power socket, feeding the machine with electricity. He lashed out with his foot, trying to hook the cable, to pull it from the wall.

  For the briefest instant Sarah Delacourt’s face registered concern. The eyes flicked across to follow the arc of Steve’s foot, and he knew in that moment his idea was sound. He kicked out again and this time caught the cable and tugged it. With a soft click the plug was pulled, not from the socket on the wall, but from the back of the computer. The look of alarm of Sarah Delacourt’s face turned to triumph as the batteries kicked in and the computer stayed on. She started to laugh manically.

  The laugh turned into a scream as Steve slammed his hand down on the computer’s off switch, and the machine shut down, trapping the body of Sarah Delacourt half in, half out of the screen.

  The hands released their grip on Steve’s jacket and flailed the air. The beautiful face began to rot in front of Steve’s eyes, the skin turning from grey to green, to black, the skin withering and peeling away, leaving nothing behind it but a stark white, grinning skull. The skull itself started to decompose, crumbling to dust, teeth dropping from the jaw, falling with a soft patter onto the rug, where they lay like white beetles until they too rotted away to nothing. Within seconds there was no evidence in the room that Sarah Delacourt had ever existed.

  Steve stood staring at the computer, hardly able to believe that he had beaten her, but he was very well aware that this had been only a battle, not the war. Isabella Senice still existed and she still had Billy, and Steve would not rest until he found him.

  He crossed to the window and stared out at the darkening night. A full moon hung low in the sky, its light picking out highlights on the tops of the trees and the roof of the summerhouse. It sat on the surface of the lake, a silver disc, like some huge water lily. Steve gripped the windowsill as he saw the small rowing boat cutting across the centre of the moon’s reflection, on its way to the island. He recognised the silhouette of Roger DeMarney, bent over the oars, propelling the small craft through the water, and the moonlight played for a moment on a mane of blond hair, before shadow shrouded the boat once more and DeMarney and his passenger were hidden from view.

  Steve knew with a certainty that was as demoralising as it was frightening, that DeMarney and Senice had not only got Billy, but Lisa too was in their clutches.

  Feeling slightly sick and very alone he walked out of the room and headed down the stairs.

  He stood at the edge of the lake and stared across at the island. He couldn’t see the boat and presumed it was moored around the side of the island. The old boat was where he had left it, pulled out half way across the path. A brief rummage through the undergrowth revealed the oars. He slipped the boat into the water and climbed on board.

  As he rowed he watched the water cautiously. He wanted no repetition of his last experience on the lake, but the water was placid and calm, the only movement caused by Steve’s oars cutting through the surface.

  The current caught him at about the same spot as before, and once again he found he could ship the oars and let the current take the small boat around to the side of the island.

  As he had thought the newer boat was tied up at the jetty. The dinghy bumped against the stanchion. Steve caught hold of the planking and climbed out. This time he knew where he was going, and started to jog along the path to the trees.

  By the time he reached the clearing it was totally dark, but there were lights on in the cottage. In fact it looked as if every light was burning, both upstairs and down. He stood in the cover of the trees and watched, hoping to see a sign of Lisa or Billy. Instead it was DeMarney he saw first.

  He had been about to make a dash for the house when the front door opened and DeMarney stepped out into the night. Steve ducked back into the shadows and watched. DeMarney was staring at the trees, almost staring directly at him, but Steve was convinced his cover was adequate. A look of irritation crossed the man’s normally bland face and Steve allowed himself a slight smile. Perhaps things were not going exactly as they had planned. Certainly losing Sarah Delacourt would not have been on the agenda.

  For the first time Steve began to think that the odds might not be insurmountable. Perhaps there was a chance they could beat DeMarney and Isabella Senice.

  As DeMarney went back inside, Steve made his way to the back of the cottage, keeping to the cover of the trees. He was about to move towards the back door when he almost ran straight into DeMarney again. This time the man emerged from the lean-to at the rear of the house. He looked about him sharply and crossed to the shed. He pulled open the door and disappeared inside.

  Steve followed him. He knew that, logically, he should take DeMarney’s absence as his cue to search the house, but there was something about the way the man had approached the shed – a purposefulness that intrigued Steve.

  There was a grimy window in the side of the shed. He stole a glimpse through it.

  The shed was empty.

  He shook his head and went to the door, easing it back on its hinges gently. The bodies of Sean and Susan were still lying on the floor, and he avoided looking at them. Ahead of him was an open trap door, a three feet square, made from the same boards as the floor. Steve walked softly across the boards to the doorway and peered down. The trap door opened onto a staircase, lit at regular intervals by low wattage bulbs. At the bottom of the staircase appeared to be a corridor, also lit.

  ‘Got you,’ he thought.

  He needed a weapon of some sort. In the far corner of the shed, covered with spider webs were some rusty garden tools – a spade and fork, a hoe and rake, a small axe and a wooden mallet. He picked up the axe and hefted it in his hand, but then he saw an iron spike leaning against the wall behind the spade and fork. It was a three feet long and sharply pointed at one end. He could only guess what the former gardener of the place had used it for, but it would make a more suitable weapon than the axe.

  He gripped the spike in both hands and descended the steps with cat-like silence.

  Someone was dripping water onto her lips. Lisa fluttered her eyelids, but the light was harsh and she screwed them tight again.

  ‘Drink,’ a voice said. A soft, gentle female voice slightly accented and smooth like velvet. It was a voice that could calm, a voice that could seduce. She flicked her eyes open again to see what the owner of the voice looked like, and stared up into one of the most beautiful faces she had ever seen.

  The face that b
elonged to the voice was olive skinned, with lustrous brown eyes and deep ruby lips. The nose was straight and finely chiselled, set off to perfection by the high angular cheekbones. The hair was jet black and pulled severely away from the face, and in the perfectly shaped ears were gold hoop earrings.

  The face belonged to Isabella Senice.

  As she helped Lisa to sit up, she introduced herself and brushed Lisa’s hair away from her eyes with a beautifully manicured hand. ‘Forgive me having you brought here in this way. I told Roger no violence, not with you. I will speak to him when he gets here.’

  ‘Why am I here? Lisa said shakily. When the woman had told her who she was, a shock had passed through her like a bolt of lightning, and left her numb. .

  ‘You are here because fate has brought us together, but then I think you knew that. Come, sit over here.’

  Now that Lisa had the chance to take in the room she could see that it was large and elegantly decorated. The furniture was antique and elaborate Persian rug covered the floor. Old Masters hung on the wall, and in recesses were small stands holding exquisite sculptures and intricate rock crystal carvings.

  It was a lifetime’s collection – or several lifetimes.

  The woman moved across the floor with feline grace. Her legs were long and slim, as was the rest of her body. The raven hair tumbled down her back to reach her waist, and shimmered in the room’s soft light.

  She sat on a long burgundy leather couch, and patted the seat next to her. ‘Come,’ she said.

  Lisa got stiffly to her feet. Her jaw was aching where DeMarney had hit her. She touched it gingerly with her fingertips. It felt bruised. She went across to the couch and sat.