Something stirred in the bushes behind the graveyard. A tall Englishman in a ragged fur loincloth, with a wide pale face and dark eyes, stepped out from the bushes. “I say, what happened?” he asked, holding up his papier-mâché club. “Did we bugger up the scene?”
One of the cameramen held up his hand. “Actually, Mr. Teller, we caught the whole thing on film,” he said. “The Black Shuck showing up, the gunfight, and Mr. Candle here turning it to ash. You want us to scrap it?”
Teller shook his head. “Nah, we’ll fix it in post. Let’s everyone take a break, eh? I think we’ve had enough action for now.” He turned to Weatherby and me. “So, you don’t have any idea who summoned this thing?”
“It could be any number of otherworldly forces,” Weatherby said. “To use the vernacular, maybe someone just has it out for you.” I had removed my trench coat and was looking at the long jagged cut on my arm. Weatherby produced some bandages from his frock coat and patched me up as best he could. The black shuck’s claws hadn’t cut deep, but they did hurt.
“But why would anyone hate me?” Teller asked. “I just make horror movies!”
Before I could answer that question, a sleek Lincoln Town Car rolled over past the driveway and into the grass before the film set. The door opened and a well-dressed man with silver hair and a pearl gray three-piece suit stepped out, thin-brimmed fedora in his hand. He approached us, nodding and smiling.
“Clarence!” he called. “How’s that movie magic coming, old boy?”
Clarence Teller sighed. “Not so good, Albert,” he admitted. He turned to me and Weatherby. “This is Albert Riordan, my producer. Al? These are those yanks I hired for security. They already done their job, and quite well. We had a monster attack on the set, and poor Angelica nearly got gobbled up!”
Angelica smiled with a professional actress’s good humor. “I’m all right, Mr. Riordan,” she said. “Just call it method acting.”
Riordan shrugged. “Well, no harm done, I suppose. So there’s really no problem at all, then. You’ll be out filming in the moors today?”
“I’m not sure, Albert. There’s some kind of…” He looked at Weatherby as he struggled for the words. “Powerful spiritual entity that’s trying to stop the film, and it might be dangerous for the cast and crew. It’s bizarre, I know – but I’ve seen it with my own eyes and I urge you understand. Now, I know we’re a little over-budget, and behind schedule, but with this sort of unknown menace lurking about really don’t think it’s safe—”
“Come now, Clarence. The American market for British horror isn’t gonna last forever, you know. We’ve got to give them what they want – slambang action, beautiful women menaced by malevolent monsters, and more blood, fire and rage than even they can handle. And maybe you can even splice some of that monster attack into the final film? Should be just what the doctor ordered, I’d wager.”
“Um, maybe,” Clarence agreed hesitantly. “But I don’t know if we should go to the moors…”
“And neither do I.” I stepped next to Riordan. I knew people like him from my army days – idiot commanders who figured a medal and a rank made them wiser than Solomon and more powerful than God. “Mr. Riordan, me and the kid have dealt with this sort of mumbo-jumbo before. It doesn’t let it up and it doesn’t let go. My advice is to lay low until we can figure out who’s behind it and deal with them.”
Riordan nodded. “Thank you for your opinion,” he replied. “Now, Clarence, I know you may be a little skittish, but Curse of the Witch Queen must be finished. And I can easily bring in another director, if you insist on being difficult.”
Clarence nodded. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He looked back at the cast and crew. “All right, everyone!” he called. “Pack it up! Get to the lorries! We’re going to film a few scenes on the moors, and then we’ll call it a day!” He looked back to Riordan. “I hope you’re happy,” he said.
“Oh, believe me,” Riordan replied. “I am. Ta-ta.” He walked back to his town car.
Weatherby and I stood together, alone and unmoving in the blizzard of activity as the crew started hauling cameras, props, set pieces and equipment to the trucks parked before Bly Studios. Weatherby shook his head. “It’s not right,” he said. “Mr. Riordan should not endanger the lives of these people, not for the sake of a mere film!”
“I thought you didn’t like them,” I pointed out.
He looked up at Angelica. She had slipped into a thick robe against the cold of the countryside. “They’re not so bad,” he said. “They’re doing a job. Kind of like us, in a way.”
“Sure,” I said. “Except they can do another take if they flub a line. We’ll just get mashed up by a monster.” I patted his shoulder and pointed to the trucks. “Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s go to the moors.”
We shared a car with Patrick Darling and Angelica Witt. We all crammed together in the back of the little truck. Weatherby sat next to me, as far away from Angelica as possible. He kept sending shy glances her way, and I could see why. He treated her like she was a primed land mine, and perhaps he was right. She sat next to Darling, who was whined about the state of his career.
“Did you know how the Times characterized my performance of the title role in the Scottish Play?” he asked. “They said it was ‘magnificent and multifaceted.’ And now the most complex emotions I must display are ‘be angry about a monster trying to eat my girlfriend,’ or something similar.”
“The Scottish Play?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Ain’t they all English around here? Darling’s whining didn’t suit me.
“It refers to Macbeth, love,” Angelica explained. “Actors believe it’s a curse to say the name.” She smiled. “Curses and things are all over this country, I think. It seems like every old castle’s got a ghost or two in it, every hill has some troll or ogre that lorded over it, and there’s always some witch-burning or depraved local noble lurking around, if you look for them hard enough.” She smiled. “But it’s all in good fun.”
“I’m not so sure,” Weatherby said softly. Maybe it was his schoolboy crush on Angelica, or maybe it was the subject, but his usual rudeness vanished. “Not when you have to live with it, I think.”
“Well, I guess all the gothic business would get a bit dreary after a while,” Angelica said. She leaned over and patted Weatherby’s shoulder. He shuddered and his face went red and then he smiled like an idiot. “But it’s my job, love. And I guess it’s yours too, in a way. That’s why vacations exist, I reckon. And you know, for everyone else, all the people who see Mallet movies, that’s what the dark gothic stuff is – a vacation. A bit of escapism, to brighten up their day.” She smiled up at me. “What do you think, Mr. Candle?”
“It’s been part of my life — ever since the war,” I said. “Monsters, demons, vampires – that’s my line. I can’t change it, so I might as well make a fast buck out. And give back a little pain.”
Darling cleared his throat. “All the world’s a stage,” he announced. “And all the men and women are merely players.”
Angelica nodded politely. “And speaking of that, you know where we’re headed? The swampy hideout of Sawney Bean himself!” She grinned at Weatherby. “You must know of that story, dear – about the murderous family of inbred hill-folk, who would capture and devour any passerby.”
“Sounds like the residents of Washington DC,” I muttered. I leaned back in my seat and looked out the tinted window.
The thin strip of road led under tall trees emerging from the soggy ground. Pools and puddles of fetid water rested under the boughs of the trees, clinging to the roots and mud. Shadows hung everywhere. There was something primal about the place that I didn’t like. I closed my eyes and felt the soreness in my arm where the Black Shuck slashed me. Something told me that the climax of this film was coming up – and I could only wonder if there’d be a happy ending.
We arrived at the film site late in the afternoon. It seemed to be dusk already, by the darkness that l
urked under the tall trees and in the dark pools of water. The film crew had set up their camera in the back of a battered pick-up truck. It overlooked a small clearing, where Clarence Teller was laying out his scene.
As I got out of our car, I looked over the driver. He was a short man, with a thin nose and a pinched face. He looked like a weasel, and had greasy ginger hair. He pulled his flat cap down over his eyes and looked away. He seemed kind of familiar, and I had a strange feeling that I knew him from somewhere. He scurried back to the driver’s seat, digging a cigarette out of his pocket. I turned away. I had other things to worry about.
Clarence Teller stood in the center of the clearing and started giving out direction. “Now, this’ll be a bit of romance interrupted by a procession of ghosts. Angie, baby, come on here and stand with Patrick. We’ll get you from the back of that truck, and then have the ghosts come in from behind those trees, there.” He nodded to a bunch of extras, all wearing clanking suits of costume armor and fiddling with their halberds and swords. “Now, you don’t scream, but just watch them. I want fascination, not horror, to be the feeling the audience has for the Witch Queen’s court.”
I walked over to stand next to Weatherby. “I don’t like this place,” I said. “Trees everywhere, and the water. It seems like the set-up for a thousand ambushes.”
“Except it’s no earthly snipers or machine gun nests we have to worry about,” Weatherby pointed out. “But something entirely different. The Sawney Bean legend about this place bodes ill.”
“And that ain’t the only thing,” I muttered.
“Quiet on the set!” Teller’s business-like shriek made us all shut up. Teller nodded to the camera men, and they gave him a thumbs-up. “Okay,” he said, looking to the actors. Angelica wore a scarlet cloak over her flowing nightgown, and Darling had a top hat and held a prop broadsword gingerly. “Right…action!”
Weatherby and I fell silent and watched the scene. Angelica ran into Patrick Darling’s arms, and he held her close while looking resolutely into the distance. They started going through their lines, Teller nodding all the while. “Oh, Jonathan!” Angelica cried. “It was horrible! The gnashing of fangs, the flapping of bats wings – and that horrid woman who controlled them all!”
“Woman?” Patrick replied. “What woman?”
“It was…your mother! The duchess!” Angelica bawled.
“No…not mother. That’s impossible!”
I tuned out the turgid dialogue and looked into the trees behind them. I suddenly felt a chill run down my back, a little ice water slipping into my veins. It wasn’t like I felt when the Krauts were stalking us through some artillery-blasted forest or ruined French village. That was almost an anticipation of the coming battle. This was something different, like I was being hunted.
Something stirred in the bushes behind Angelica. This time, we knew it wasn’t some actor waiting for their close-up. I heard hooves striking the dirt and then the branches parted, like curtains before a stage.
A figure on horseback rode straight for the two actors, his dark forest-green cloak billowing about him. He stood head and shoulders taller than me, and countless swords, axes, and spears hung on his massive black steed, all near his large gloved hands. His face was shrouded in the darkness of his cloak’s hood, with only pinpricks of hateful red for his eyes. But above his head, covered with intricate carved runes, were a pair of large black antlers. Two snarling Black Shucks padded along after him.
Weatherby recognized him instantly. “Herne the Hunter!” he cried, dashing forward. I followed, going for my guns. Weatherby struggled to draw some tool or weapon from his frock coat. “A hunter’s spirit, who killed himself when he was banned from his favorite pastime. A dash of powdered lodestone should scramble his mind, allowing us a chance for victory!”
We ran to the middle of the clearing, before the cameras, and I started shooting while I moved. I pumped lead into the two black dogs, driving them back and giving Darling and Angelica a chance to run to safety. But Herne the Hunter charged up to meet us, and reached down. His great fingers, resembling the long gnarled roots of trees in his gloves, wrapped around Angelica’s slim waist. He started to lift her up, but Weatherby had other ideas.
“Do not take her!” he cried, tossing a small glass vial of silver powder into the face of the powerful phantom. “It’s me you want! I’m your target!” The vial shattered, and crushed lodestone went into Herne’s hooded face.
The ruse worked, but I wasn’t sure if Weatherby saw its outcome. Herne dropped Angelica roughly to the ground, and then swung a curling lariat of dried up vines at Weatherby. With an audible snap, the lariat wrapped around the boy’s shoulders and tightened. He had one terrified look at me, and then Herne started galloping away, dragging Weatherby after him. The boy went through the mud and water, staining his clothes. But I had a feeling that hunter would hurt more than his pride.
“Oh god!” Angelica Witt cried. “We’ve got to go after him!”
“Got that right, sister.” I hurried to the pick-up, the nearest vehicle. That familiar driver was at the wheel, and I nodded to him as I leapt into the back. The film crew hopped off, but they left their camera in the back. It was still running. There was no time to shut it off. “Start driving!” I shouted, reloading my automatics and he started the auto.
Angelica clambered in after me, holding the prop sword. She wasn’t thinking straight and I didn’t have time to tell her to get off before we started rolling after Herne the Hunter. The movie and reality seemed to be like dirt and rain – mixing together into incomprehensible muddy mess. Mud spurted up from the tires of the pick-up, and it bucked and jounced under my feet as it took off after Herne the Hunter.
“That poor boy…” Angelica whispered.
“Sister, you don’t know the half of it.” I raised both automatics as the pick-up rattled through the moors, the fetid water rising around the spinning wheels. “But that monster was going for you. Same as the hound back at Bly Studios. Someone’s got it out with you. Someone with access to magic.” I turned to look at her. “Got any enemies who happen to be wizards?”
“No! Of course not!” Angelica replied. She pointed up ahead. “Good Lord!” she cried. “Look!”
In the middle of the shallow pool of swamp water was a small island of dirt, topped with a cluster of ancient standing stones. They were weathered, jagged piles of stone, poking up from the dirt, and Herne the Hunter stood in the middle of them. Our driver slammed on the brakes, but the pick-up still careened forward and splashed into the muddy pond.
Herne looked up at me and Angelica, and then down at Weatherby. I guess he realized his mistake, because he raised his sword and hacked off the lariat. Weatherby came weakly to his feet. The poor kid was soaked to his skin and battered from his ride, but he pointed to Angelica and looked like he had gotten both barrels of a shotgun square in his chest.
“Take her away from here, Morton! Herne wants this! He’ll find some way to kill her! You must flee!” Weatherby cried.
I looked at Herne and readied my automatics. But Herne the Hunter wasn’t up for a fight. He hurled his spear into the middle of the pond, driving the barbed weapon deep into the mud. Herne then turned and rode away, his hounds racing after him. They vanished into the mist.
“Guess he didn’t want to tangle with me,” I said. “Can’t say I blame him.”
Weatherby shook his head as he came painfully to his feet. “It was a tactical retreat, Morton. He saw that Angelica, his target, is where he wants her. And now his servants will close for the kill.”
The water started to ripple. The large ripples extended outwards from Herne’s stuck spear and spread slowly through the water. By now, our pick-up was half in the water and half out, and the tide brushed against it. More ripples followed, and then a skeletal hand clutching a rusted meat cleaver reared out of the mud. I swore as more skeletons followed. They were waterlogged and misshapen, many with hunched backs and distorted skulls. Serrated butcher k
nives, hatchets, daggers and other makeshift weapons rattled in skeletal hands.
“The mutated family of Sawney Bean!” Angelica cried.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered. I started shooting, blasting down the skeletons as they charged for the car. “Weatherby!” I shouted. “Get over here, kid! I’ll cover you!” A stoop-shouldered skeleton swinging a pitchfork clambered onto the hood of the car, but I turned his skull to dust with a well-placed bullet. “And hurry!” I looked down at the driver as Weatherby started splashing through the pond. “Get us out of here, pal!” I told him.
He slammed down on the gas pedal, and the car started rolling in reverse. Great torrents of mud spat up from the wheels, and it didn’t go further. “Ah, Jesus!” he cried, in a strong Irish accent. I suddenly remembered how I knew him. “She ain’t doing much, man! She’s bleeding stuck!”
Weatherby was halfway through the pool, splashing water on his muddy trousers and cursing. His large antique revolver was in his hand, but that heater was more a hazard to him than anyone else. A short skeleton with a pair of curved daggers lunged at him, knocking the boy down to the ground while it tried to slash both blades across his throat. I swore as I jumped off the hood of the car and ran to him, pounding through the water as skeletal hands gripped my coat. I pulled my way through, crashing the handles of my pistols until any skull that came close enough.
I reached Weatherby and hauled him away from his attacker. “Kiddo, we got to find us a better line of work,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said, with a weak smile. “I think we’re doing just brilliantly.”
We started running back, and made it to the pick-up. Now the skeletons were thick around us, and my guns were low on ammo. Angelica swung the prop sword down at Sawney Bean’s children, using the heavy wooden blade to crack open a soggy skull. We clambered into the back, and I looked down at the driver.
“Come on, Neddy!” I shouted, remembering the driver’s name. “I’m a little tired of staying put!”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) Page 11