by Robin Jarvis
Immediately the driver began thumping upon the windscreen and banging his fists upon the bonnet.
‘What do I do?’ Peter cried.
‘We must away!’ Thought commanded, hopping up and down upon the head-rest of the passenger seat. ‘Before the glass is broken.’
With an apologetic wave to the true owner, Peter put his foot down and the car roared. Crunching the bumper of the vehicle in front, there came a screech of tyres and a scraping of metal against metal until, lurching, it shot from the parking space. The owner leapt back as his hatchback went tearing around the corner and disappeared behind the trees of the park.
His hands locked tightly about the steering wheel, Peter Galloway stared out of the windscreen at the main road ahead, sweat pouring off his face.
‘Well done,’ the raven congratulated him. ‘Art thou certain thou wert never a footpad or cutpurse before now? The mantle suits thee well.’
‘I've never done anything like this before,’ the vicar proclaimed, wrenching his eyes from the road. ‘Joyriding! What would they have said at the youth centre?’
Thought chuckled dryly. ‘Peace,’ he said, ‘dost thou not know a jest when it is uttered? Nay, be not aggrieved by this act, for it is the first step towards the great gladness that is to come.’
Peter swallowed and reminded himself of that fact. ‘Yes,’ he murmured. ‘So, where exactly are we going?’
‘Didst thou not listen to our Lord?’ the raven asked mildly. ‘To a place most sacred in this verdant land—to Ynnis Witrin, the blessed isle of Avalon.’
The car kangarooed as the Reverend Galloway lost his concentration and he sighed with unparalleled joy—‘Now, I understand,’ he uttered. ‘I know the legend. So it really is buried there. Oh, yes, what better testament to The Passion can there be? I can't believe it—it's fabulous!’
Thought said nothing and let the vicar avow his happiness. They were far from their destination and there was still much to be done.
Yet even as the maroon hatchback scooted off into the night, in the small town of Glastonbury, the terrors which the raven's Master had rekindled there were to find their numbers increased by a new recruit.
Chapter 12 - Riding the Night
At the Humphries’ Bed and Breakfast, Lauren's stepmother twisted in sweat-soaked bedsheets, groaning and complaining in her sleep. Turning fitfully upon the pillow, the woman's face was waxy and pricked with perspiration, and the breaths which wheezed over her swollen tongue were shallow and laboured.
Gulping at the cool air, she rolled on to her back and her eyes suddenly snapped open.
Like large spots of ink, her pupils stared up at the ceiling and, massaging her painful throat, she pulled the coverlet further up the bed. In spite of the sweat which poured down her face, Sheila was shivering and she leaned across to the slumbering figure at her side.
‘Guy,’ she uttered with a choking cough. ‘Wake up, Guy!’
Lauren's father made no movement so she nudged him anxiously.
‘Guy!’ she spluttered. ‘I'm... I... I think you'd better call... call the doctor!’
Still no answer. The man remained fast asleep and Sheila shook him with what little strength she could muster.
‘Guy!’ she pleaded.
It was no use. Nothing she could do would rouse him and, weakened by her exertions, she collapsed back on to the pillows, panting and spent.
Dim was the moonlight which seeped into the room, but it was bright enough to spread across the floor and shine its pallid glow over the wall against which the bed stood.
Gasping and straining for breath, Sheila's swimming eyes roved blearily around, until gradually they focused upon the patterned cloth of the object which hung upon the bedhead.
There was the crow doll she had placed there earlier that evening in the hope of attaining a good night's rest. As she heaved her aching ribs up and down, she found the contradiction infuriating.
The eyes which were sewn upon either side of the yellow beak appeared to gleam in the chill moonlight and Sheila sobbed as her fever caused her to imagine that the effigy was moving.
The checked material of the doll's dress stirred as if blown by a draught and, jutting from the neatly sewn sleeves, the twiggy fingers flexed slowly.
Sheila moaned, shakily reaching out for the bedside lamp to dispel these delirious illusions but, before her finger found the switch, she froze and stared in horror.
It was not her imagination, it was moving—the doll was alive.
On the plain calico apron, the stitches which formed the word “HLOKK” glimmered and a ruby light shone through the thread until the letters burned fiercely.
Hanging upon its cord, the doll twitched and jerked into life. Beneath the small straw hat, the bird's fabric head turned until the bead eyes were staring down at Sheila and the twigs clattered together as it squirmed to unhook itself from the bedpost.
‘No!’ the woman cried, throwing the blankets from her and leaping out of bed. ‘Guy! Help me! Help! Lauren!’
Too late, she fled for the door but the doll had worked itself free and, with supernatural force, launched itself at her.
Her hands scrabbling at the door handle, Sheila screamed when the nightmare creature leapt on to the back of her head. Her anguished voice grew shrill and wild with terror as the twigs tangled in her hair and the fiery letters scorched into her scalp.
‘No!’ she yelled, writhing and twisting like a rabbit caught in a snare. ‘Lauren! Get it off! Get it off!’
Through her hair the doll's fingers stretched, snaking and growing about the woman's head and neck as it clung with vicious strength and, though she tried to tear it from her, there was no escape.
Shrieking, Sheila collapsed against the door. The sprouting, flourishing twigs wrapped about her and she was lost in a well of deep, crackling shadow.
*
In the adjoining room, Lauren was startled awake by her stepmother's cries and snapped on the light as she dragged herself out of bed.
‘Dad? Sheila?’ she called, hurrying from her room—a hundred drastic possibilities flashing into her mind.
‘What's going on? What's happened?’
On to the landing she ran and pushed at the door but it refused to budge, as if something heavy was lying against it. The girl pounded upon it with her fists.
‘Let me in!’ she demanded. ‘Dad! Dad!’
The frightened wails were subsiding now, but within the main bedroom there came a series of frantic bumps and crashes, and the door shivered in its frame as something smashed into it.
Fearfully, Lauren stepped back and, to her consternation, she heard a low, hideous, dry voice begin to croak and scream.
‘What's in there?’ she breathed in despair. ‘Dad! Sheila! What is it? Answer me!’
Standing there upon the landing as the ghastly, bestial voice continued to snap and squawk on the other side of the door, Lauren felt horribly alone and helpless.
She desperately wanted to race downstairs and phone the police but that would mean abandoning her father and stepmother to whatever was in there. All she knew was that it certainly wasn't human and, feeling wretched and afraid, she waited as the seconds dragged by until the voice finally grew more faint.
Then there was silence.
*
Her plump face buried in her fists, Lauren gingerly moved closer to the door, pressing her ear to the wood.
The only sound she could hear was the dull, rapid beat of her own blood in her eardrums. Whatever had uttered that repugnant voice was either deliberately being quiet, or its mouth was otherwise preoccupied.
Filled with this horrific, sickening thought and dreading the grisly sight she might encounter, Lauren gave the door a ferocious kick.
‘Dad!’ she cried when the barrier shuddered open and the girl tore inside, heedless of her own safety.
Lauren stumbled to a halt as she viewed the scene before her. Upon the bed lay her father, yet she could see quite plainly that
he was only sleeping and although the relief at this discovery coursed through her tense limbs, she could see no sign of Sheila.
A bitterly cold draught rilled the bedroom and Lauren shivered in the large T-shirt she used as pyjamas, as she crossed to where her father lay and shook him gently.
‘Dad?’ she murmured. ‘Wake up, please, Dad!’
Yet the man merely snored in reply and she pulled away, her face creasing with concern.
‘Sheila?’ she called miserably. ‘Sheila?’
Lauren caught her breath and rubbed the goose-flesh which had prickled over her arms. The window had been thrust open and the net curtains were rippling with the breeze.
Nervously, she walked over and peered outside, fearing to see a broken body sprawled upon the gravel below. But no—the drive was empty.
Casting her eyes back to her unconscious father, Lauren wondered what she ought to do. What had happened here? Where was Sheila? She couldn't have jumped down from the window without hurting herself, and what had made that hideous caterwauling?
It was then that she discovered, gouged into the wooden sill, four deep claw marks. As she stepped nearer to examine them, something soft brushed against her toes.
Lauren cried out and jumped back in case the unseen creature bit her. Then, staring down, she shook her head.
Lying upon the carpet was an immense, jet black feather.
Crouching on the floor, the girl flicked it warily then picked it up and held it in the moonlight.
The feather was nearly as long as her arm, and there was a quality about it which made Lauren screw up her face in a distasteful grimace. Whatever creature this quill belonged to was like nothing she had ever seen and her skin crawled even to touch it.
Throwing it out of the window, she wiped her fingers and frowned. What was she to do? Had Sheila been snatched by some demonic, nocturnal bird of prey? The whole notion was preposterous—yet there was the feather and it would account for the terrible shrieks that had awoken her.
Only the prone, slumbering figure of her father prevented her from running to fetch help. There was more to this than she could ever explain—if she waited until daylight the situation might appear less unnatural and a more down-to-earth answer could possibly be found.
Reaching for the window, Lauren prepared to close it, then checked herself and returned instead to her own room.
There, with her knees tucked underneath her chin, she sat upon her bed and began to wait for the dawn.
*
At the edge of the Somerset wood, where Eden's Bus remained parked upon the verge, the two dogs who slept in a large box beneath the dilapidated coach
pricked up their ears and started to whimper.
Within the old, rusted vehicle, the five travellers were sleeping peacefully—a small nightlight had burned low and its waning flame cast a trembling glow over its shadowy interior.
Snug inside his sleeping bag, Owen grunted and turned groggily on to his side as the labrador's whine became a frightened yowl underneath the floor and the Jack Russell yapped with terror.
Rubbing his eyes, the man sat up and a rush of icy fear washed over him as he listened to the petrified dogs outside.
‘Not again,’ he muttered, clambering out of the bag.
Behind a draped curtain a woman's voice asked in a drowsy whisper, ‘What's the matter with them now? Get them to keep quiet will you?’
Owen pulled on his jeans. ‘They won't listen to me,’ he said. ‘Can't you feel it, Rhon? There's something awful out there. The poor brutes are scared witless.’
Rhonda's sleepy face appeared beneath the curtain. ‘Well, bring them inside then,’ she told him. ‘But keep them down your end of the bus, I don't want to be slobbered on all night.’
‘What's going on?’ Luke's voice complained.
‘Go back to sleep,’ Rhonda said tetchily. ‘You'll wake the others.’
Hopping over the sleeping bag, Owen moved towards the door and pulled it open.
‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Get in here.’
Yet the dogs refused to budge from their shelter beneath the coach and howled all the more.
Owen jumped on to the grass and knelt upon on all fours to shine a torch under the vehicle.
The eyes of the two dogs flared bright green and yellow as the light beam blazed upon them, and the man was dismayed to see that their mouths were speckled with white froth and that they were shivering uncontrollably.
‘Hey,’ he said warmly. ‘It's all right boys. Old Owen's here now. Come on, lads—it's lovely an’ toasty in the bus.’
Neither animal moved, their pitiful eyes stared woefully up at him but they were too paralysed with fear to leave the sanctuary of their box.
Owen frowned and rose. ‘Suit yourselves,’ he murmured, returning to the door and hurrying back inside to find Rhonda waiting for him.
‘Where are they?’ she asked.
‘Wouldn't come in,’ the man shrugged. ‘Should see their faces though, Rhon, awful they are.’
Rhonda hugged herself. ‘We should've listened to Aidan and left,’ she said.
‘I know,’ Owen answered.
At that moment the dogs ceased their yammering and Rhonda swallowed nervously. ‘What can that mean?’ she breathed.
Owen didn't know what to say, but then they heard a different, more disturbing sound and they stared at each other in dread.
High above, echoing across the sky there came a horrible, frantic clamouring.
‘What on earth..?’ Rhonda whispered. ‘Birds..?’
‘Doesn't sound like any flock I ever heard.’
Lit by the wavering flame of the nightlight, Rhonda's face turned pale and she listened in mounting horror as the foul noise grew gradually louder.
‘Mad geese perhaps?’ she suggested trying to sound light-hearted but not succeeding.
‘No,’ Owen said softly, ‘more like a demented mob, rioting through the darkness.’
‘Those are not animal voices, Owen.’
‘Nor are they human,’ came his ominous reply.
‘It's getting closer.’
‘What is that racket?’ called Luke's voice abruptly.
Rhonda turned to see her husband come blundering through the curtain scratching his head and yawning stupidly.
‘Quiet!’ she hissed, afraid that his loud voice might attract the attention of whatever was flying overhead.
Above the surrounding wood, the shrill screeching continued to draw nearer and the last vestige of Luke's sleepiness vanished completely.
'I don't like it,’ he said lunging for the driver's seat. ‘We've got to get out of here, right now.’
‘No!’ Owen cried, dragging him back. ‘You'll only draw attention to us—let them fly past!’
Rhonda ran to the window and pressed her cheek flat against the glass as she peered up into the star-flecked night.
‘I can't see anything,’ she said. ‘But they're definitely getting closer, just listen to it now.’
‘They must be directly overhead,’ Owen whispered. ‘Stay quiet.’
Rhonda and Luke nodded. The raucous sound was unbearably loud and they held each other's hands desperately as the wild, blaring shrieks reverberated above the trees.
In fearful silence, Patrick.and Dot came blundering from their bunks and gazed at their friends with ashen faces.
Owen stared back, then his expression changed to one of panic.
‘The light!’ he blurted. ‘Put it out!’
Rhonda whirled around and ran to the shelf where the dwindling nightlight was still burning and hastily extinguished the flame.
In the darkness which engulfed them, they heard the dogs yelp in terror and through the windows they saw them bolt from beneath the coach and flee into the nearby wood.
‘Why did they do that?’ Dot wept. ‘Patrick, what's out there?’
Before anyone could answer, the shrieking suddenly erupted all around them and they clapped their hands to their ears as t
he very air shook from the clangorous din of the unearthly, piercing screams.
‘Stop it!’ Dot bawled, dropping to the floor and crawling into a corner.
Then, abruptly, the bus quivered and the roof buckled as a great weight came crashing on top of it—followed by another and another.
Violently the vehicle shuddered as more of the unseen creatures landed upon it—their terrible croaking voices crowing and screeching.
‘Save us!’ Rhonda prayed, glancing fearfully up at the battered and dented ceiling.
Seized by powerful, malevolent forces, the coach suddenly lurched beneath the impact of a tremendous blow. The travellers within were hurled against the side, floundering into the windows and tearing down the partitioning curtains in their battle for balance.
From the shelves and out of the cupboards whose doors were flung open, all the ornaments, mugs and plates went careering after shattering and smashing upon the floor. Suspended from hooks, the pans clanged and crashed together like tuneless cymbals as they swung madly, striking Luke across the temple when he stumbled by.
‘Make it stop!’ Dot yelled hysterically. ‘Make it stop! Make it stop!’
With an almighty crunching of metal, a third pounding judder rocked the coach and for Dot it was too much. Before Patrick could stop her, she leapt up and pelted for the door screaming at the top of her voice.
‘Let me out!’ she hollered. ‘We'll all die in here! We'll die!’
Even as she tore the door open, strong hands gripped her and Owen twisted her around to push her back with the others.
‘Listen to me!’ he shouted. ‘God knows what's up there but you won't last five seconds if you...’
His voice was suddenly lost and the others could only watch in mortified despair as, through the open door and reaching down from above, a great repulsive talon came stretching.
Before Owen could turn to face it, the black scale-covered claw flashed out and drove deep into his shoulder, puncturing the flesh and hooking deep inside his ribs.
Howling in pain, yet struggling for all he was worth, the man was dragged outside and, when his wide tormented eyes glared upwards to view the creatures upon the roof, he let out a final, soul tearing scream.