Hell Pit

by WR Armstrong

  The cross that she herself had made was still up there, a puny stupid thing, made by nailing together two pieces of wood that she had scavenged from the rear of the house, and which had probably been there since before her husband’s premature death. Why did you have to go, she wondered despairingly, why did you both have to go? And yes, she had nailed her son’s lifeless body to the infernal contraption, misguided wretch that she was. How foolish she was to think such a sacrilegious act such as that could breathe new life into a cadaver, returning it to a normal existence.

  For the umpteenth time she kissed the rosary beads and prayed for forgiveness, though the act of repentance did little to relieve her of the guilt weighing down on her soul.

  Thud!

  Her eyes darted to the ceiling. It wanted her. If she didn’t go, what then, she wondered? Would it finally try to leave the bedroom, come downstairs so it could plague her with its unsightly presence, and perhaps talk to her in its ridiculous garbled manner? It had tried to communicate several times, unsuccessfully, using her son’s voice. The vocal chords refused to work properly. She doubted it really was Tommy in there, but couldn’t be sure. Part of her little boy might be trapped inside the corpse, with God knows what. She could not abandon it until she knew for sure. She could not risk the possibility of betraying her own son.

  “Poor Tommy,” she quietly lamented to the empty room. She watched the washing sway with the late autumnal breeze, and heard the big sheet flap lazily like the wings of a great bird.

  Another noise echoed from above. He—it—she corrected once more was trying to attract her attention again. She tried to convince herself that it was too enfeebled to present any real threat. Of course, she would have to go to it. Maybe this time she would find out once and for all if remnants of little Tommy still existed inside the creature? If not, then she would try to destroy the thing. She opened a kitchen drawer, withdrawing a bread knife. She had no idea whether it could be killed, but what else could she do? If, heaven forbid, the innocent soul of her dead son inhabited the corpse, she would be forgiving of its monstrous appearance and unholy presence on this earth. If not—she clutched the bread knife tightly and left the kitchen. As she entered the musty hallway of her council house, she recalled how helpless it was. As helpless as a newborn babe, she thought grimly, and in a perverted sense, that’s exactly what it was.

  She paused, hearing a faint voice. Yes, there it was again, drifting from above, coming from Tommy’s room. She thought the voice called out the word, “Mommy” reigniting her maternal instincts. It was torturous. For a moment she sensed the voices gathering inside her head, but this time it was her own conscience. Go to him, this voice of motherhood said, but the voice of reason resisted, claiming it was not Tommy raised from the dead, but something perverse, masquerading as Tommy.

  The doubt remained. Would she ever know the truth?

  “Mommy!” the voice bemoaned. It sounded like that of a trapped soul. Perhaps something of her little boy remained after all, thought Pat, which was trying to break through, and which was presently locked in a battle with something dark and alien. If so, then she must try to help him break free.

  She was standing at the foot of the stairs. The interior of the house was all of a sudden much darker: her imagination; surely. The walls appeared tainted; the wallpaper discoloured by something that seeped through in thick unholy waves. Although Pat did not realise this, she was seeing images that reflected the sad state of her mind; physical manifestations of the blackness left by the voices. She hated the voices. They had played on her grief, her weakness, duping her into committing an unforgivable act against God Almighty. She would burn in Hell for what she had done.

  “Mommy!” This time the cry was more insistent.

  Then again, she thought, clamping a hand to her mouth to prevent her horror vomiting forth, she had back her little boy, even if it was in part, she nevertheless had him back bodily. And yes, it did sound like his voice at times. Although she had to admit it possessed an unsettling maturity, as if a presence much older manipulated the young vocal chords, to suit its own ends. But even when she was certain it was Tommy speaking, he sounded so awfully distant, as if he was talking to her from a deep dark pit. The thought that this was so, terrified her almost as much as the older voice did.

  And of course, there was his ghastly appearance, which grew worse with the passing of each hour. The food he asked for she could not bring to him. She could not commit what in her eyes was the final sacrilegious act, which was to murder another human being in order to provide food for that which she’d created. Dear God in Heaven, she would be a murderer, as well as a grave robber! But wasn’t she already beyond redemption?

  She climbed the stairs, slowly, as if afraid to ever reach the top. The thing sharing Tommy’s body would have had her as a meal, she was sure, had the little piece of what remained of Tommy not intervened. It was a savage ungodly thing that knew no mercy, tamed only by the remnants of a child’s tortured soul.

  At last, she reached the landing. Inside the house it was almost black, the walls stained with the putrid evil infecting her mind. She turned on the landing light, but the bulb failed to purge the thick inky darkness that threatened to swallow what remained of her sanity. It was like a physical thing pouring in through the walls, like vomit, suffocating her mental processes. And in the chaos she thought she could hear the voices outside of her now, squabbling amongst themselves like spoiled children, arguing over which of them could preside within the rotting temple of her son’s body, when it was already crowded with the souls of many, including that of Tommy, her poor baby.

  Her hand fell on the doorknob. She could already smell him. But it wasn’t Tommy in there, she told herself, not really. She opened the door, dreading what she would find on the other side of the wood. The smell grew worse, a vile outpouring of physical decay. She held her breath, fearing she might vomit, and glanced across at the bear light bulb that glowed as ineffectually as a dying candle. The darkness seeped deeper into her brain, until she was almost blind with madness. She was grinning as she entered the bedroom.

  Tommy’s toys lay scattered roundabout. A train set was on the floor in the corner of the room, untouched since his death. Soccer posters lined the walls, pictures of pop stars keeping them company. The boy himself was sitting up in bed, unmoving, a grotesque parody of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  Pat clamped a hand over her nose and mouth to blot out the awful cloying smell of death and decay. She managed to ignore the vile stench for she could not forsake her baby, no matter how awful it smelled or looked. She tried her best to convince herself that the thing sitting there resembling some kind of hideous broken doll was still her little boy, and tried to reassure herself that in time, he would get better.

  She would bathe and cleanse his wounds, help heal the sores that had grown infected, and rid his skin of the grubs that had made it their home. The mortician had done a good job, but was unable to conceal all the injuries Tommy sustained in the crash, like the one spanning his forehead that was now crudely sown shut. The voices promised the wounds would heal, and that Tommy would regain use of the arm crushed in the accident, and would regain sight in the eye that now lay dead and useless in its socket.

  Pat found it hard to believe but believe it she must, for she had invested her future in bringing Tommy back. She had only to feed him the flesh of the living, and he would become her little boy once more. But could she do it? Could she commit such an outrageous act even if by doing so would get back her baby? And where was the guarantee of that happening anyway?

  She stepped into the bedroom. The thing that was once her little boy stared blankly up at her from the stained and crumpled bed, its good eye blinking lazily while the other remained lame and still and unseeing. And then it spoke, pleading for help, but the voice was sly and cunning, not Tommy’s voice, Pat realised with renewed dread, but that of another. She tried to stand her ground, demanding the creature leave her alone, but her
voice lacked conviction, was filled instead with terror she found impossible to hide. She repeated the demand in the same strained irresolute voice.

  The thing grinned coldly, perhaps sensing her terror. Something crawled from between its discoloured lips, dropping onto its chest, an earwig that it recaptured and nonchalantly inspected, before returning it to its mouth. In a voice filled with mockery it invited her closer, toying with her as a cat might toy with a mouse. Despite her growing sense of horror and loathing, she drew nearer, drawn like a magnet, one trembling hand behind her back, concealing the knife. She’d known all along that she would be unable to conspire with the voices to the point whereby she committed murder on their behalf. She would rather butcher her son’s body, hack it to pieces if necessary, than condone acts of cannibalism, even if such a process meant her son’s body would be healed. Whatever remained of Tommy was surely gone. The quality she had glimpsed in the voice reminding her of him, grew fainter with each sentence uttered, eaten up by the parasitical entity possessing his physical being.

  She cried his name pitifully, her body quaking with emotion. She felt her mind keeling like a sinking ship, the black roiling cloud of insanity filling her brain like poison. She doubted she would know, or comprehend much after this. The horror had taken its toll. Nevertheless, she was determined to hold onto her rational through sheer force of will, and get it over with, righting the terrible wrong she had committed. Only then would she give herself over to madness totally. In many ways, to be insane would be a blessing, she thought dimly, for it meant she would remember nothing of the exhumation of her son, or the horrifying image he presented to the world. Neither would she remember chopping up his ravaged body, and disposing of it. And if she should take her own life, insane or not, and be banished to Hell as she surely would be, she would suffer in ignorance, which would also be a blessing.

  She stood at the bedside, a broken woman devoid of hope, gazing upon the creature occupying the bed with a mixture of pity and hatred. When it reached out to her, she took it into her head to lunge with the knife. Too late she realised her actions were futile, for the thing could not be killed or even injured, for it was already dead.

  Instead of acting defensively as Pat had expected, it attacked, restraining her by the wrists, and dragging her down onto the bed, where she quickly became a meal for the dead. As life ebbed from her cannibalized body, the disembodied voices continued to haunt her fevered brain, bemoaning her act of betrayal.

  Meanwhile, her killer benefited greatly from her demise, and the regenerative affect her flesh had on its own physical being. Soon it’s still heart pumped with renewed vigour, forcing blood, no longer congealed, through veins, arteries and capillaries that expanded and contracted in time with the flow. The grubs infesting its flesh disappeared, putrid skin healed, its ragged breathing eased, its damaged eye magically aligned with its counterpart.

  Night fell.

  At last, the feeding sounds stopped and the child-thing settled down to patiently wait for its senses and thought processes to attune. Only then would it dare to leave the house, bound for St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church.

  2.

  The subsequent discovery of Pat O’Brien’s cannibalised body some days later forced the head of New Scotland Yard to issue a statement in an attempt to minimise public concern. A solemn promise was undertaken to solve the recent spate of crimes, and bring those responsible quickly to justice.

  In the same week the police received an anonymous tip off from the groundsman at St Anthony’s, who finally reported his suspicions that two graves had been disturbed in the churchyard he tended. Police forensic duly inspected the graves together with officials from the coroner’s office, who determined disturbances had indeed occurred. Exhumations were conducted without delay. As suspected, both of the graves had been robbed of their original occupants.

  Moreover, one of the stolen corpses, that of the Henderson youth, was found to have been replaced by the cadaver of the friend who survived him in the tube crash. The bizarre story made the national papers, the horrific nature of its subject matter sparking major public concern. The authorities were forced to hold an official press conference, where awkward questions were asked of those who represented the police force.

  “Have you managed to ascertain how or why the bodies in one of the graves were swapped?” was the first question asked.

  “We are considering possibilities,” a senior officer replied and refused to elaborate.

  “I understand that three of the victims were slaughtered by some kind of wild dog?” asked a local reporter.

  “That is correct,” replied a second police representative, eyes narrowed against the blinding flashes from media cameras.

  “Can you confirm whether Pat O’Brien’s injuries point to dog attack?” the same reporter asked.

  The policeman looked to his senior colleague for assistance.

  “Persons unknown are responsible for the latest murder,” the second officer admitted, averting his gaze from the lens of a nearby television camera.

  “So there are at least two killers on the loose,” another reporter asked from

  the back of the hall.

  “It would appear to be the case, yes.”

  “There’s more than two of ‘em!” an old hack challenged. “Let’s not forget the two suspects taken into police custody after confessing to murdering their respective partners,” he said referring to Marcos Powell and Elsa Bailey.

  “That much is true,” admitted the first policeman. “However, in each case a murder victim has been absent from the crime scene. Without a body we cannot draw any firm conclusions.”

  “Can you at least confirm there was evidence of a violent struggle in both cases referred to?” asked a keen young journalist near the front of the hall.

  The cops glanced at each other before responding. “Yes,” they said in unison, as if reading each other’s thoughts.

  “And what about the crosses found at the majority of crime scenes?”

  This time the officers conferred before answering. “Presently, we have no explanation for the crosses,” the senior one said finally.

  “You have to admit that all the killings to date have ritualistic undertones?” the old hack said, stabbing his pen at the air to emphasise his point.

  The police representatives refused to be drawn, the senior one stating simply, “You are welcome to form your own opinions on the matter.”

  A pretty female reporter stood from her seat, a gold pen poised to write in the notepad she held. “Is there any truth in the rumours the murder victims have been crucified on the crosses found at the murder scenes?”

  “It is too early to say,” said the first policeman.

  “Bull shit!” an anonymous voice shouted out. Brief laughter temporarily broke the tense atmosphere. The senior police officer called for order to be restored.

  “Going back to the cases of grave robbing at St Anthony’s Church,” another journalist said once the fuss had died down. “Is there any evidence to link those incidents with the latest murders?”

  “I’m afraid we have no comment.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bizarre coincidence that the bodies stolen from the graves at St Anthony’s, together with that which replaced one of them, all belonged to victims of the recent tube crash,” the old hack queried, sensing he was on to something. “It’s my understanding that one of the missing bodies was that of the late son of the murdered woman, who worked as housekeeper at St Anthony’s.”

  “It all sounds very incestuous, wouldn’t you agree gentlemen?” someone challenged from the back of the hall.

  The two policemen looked increasingly uncomfortable under the glare of media scrutiny.

  “We are unable to draw any firm conclusions as yet,” the senior one said, speaking for them both.

  “Shortly before his death, the original murder victim confided to a friend how he had performed the act of necromancy on his pet dog,” said the fem
ale reporter. “Don’t you think it’s a bizarre coincidence that his body was found in close proximity to a cross allegedly used to impale an animal?”

  The police officers were strangely silent.

  “We’d like to have your thoughts for the record?” someone pressed.

  “We are not here to hypothesise,” was the firm, but evasive reply. With that, the press conference was brought to an abrupt and, in the view of the media, unsatisfactory end. The policemen exited the hall, avoiding a further barrage of questions from the frustrated journalists.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Rinaldi was eager to show his houseguests around the historical area known as the Cotwolds. Following breakfast he brought them together in the drawing room, where he briefed them on the itinerary he had planned. “I suggest we meet in the hall in ten minutes,” he said rising stiffly from his seat, smiling in anticipation.

  Kate suddenly cried off, complaining of migraine.

  “It seems it will have to be just the two of us, Mr. Chrichton,” he said to the anthropologist. Chrichton opened his mouth to speak, to perhaps excuse himself from the trip, only to close it again, unable to think of a suitable reason for doing so.

  Kate retired to her room. Migraine had been a ploy so she might be alone in the house. She wanted to know exactly what Chrichton was up to. He had allowed her little involvement in the process of decoding the manuscript, having given her menial, often time’s pointless jobs to keep her distracted from the main task. Why he had taken this stand she wasn’t sure, though she was hell bent on finding out. Chrichton was up to something. He had been acting strangely of late, appearing guarded and remote, unlike his normal self.