“‘In you, O Lord, I have taken refuge; let me never be put to shame.’”
Popule fired off more cartridges. A wave of warriors went up in flames, but still more kept materializing out of the walls.
“‘Deliver me in your righteousness. Turn your ear to me.’”
Spectres lunged in Nicholas’s direction but backed away when they struck the circumference of the sigil. Death’s stink was in the air.
“Why haven’t the other three spirits moved?” he called between snippets of scripture, pointing at the colossal wraiths visible under the large stained glass window.
It was Naw who answered, gulping in great lungfuls of air. “The three Christian kings, martyred in Lichfield in the time of the heathen Emperor Diocletian. Their burial ground is at Borrowcop.”
“But that’s just a legend!”
“Yet here they are,” panted Naw.
“But why are their spirits here and why do these demon warriors attack?”
Ghosts charged at the sigil. Nicholas gabbled a fresh section of a psalm; the warriors’ weapons struck the air overhead like hammers brought down upon an anvil. In an opposite corner of the South Transept, Popule shot a couple clean through with his salt revolver.
“The warriors protect their lords, who are linked to this site by their own spilled blood.” Naw let out a sigh. “I’m blacking out, boyo. Help Popule fight the good fight.” The Welshman’s eyes rolled back and he slumped unconscious.
The spirit evaporated the instant Willy lost his hold on the sides of the archway.
Ailen ran over to his friend, who collapsed into his arms. He lowered Willy to the floor. Thom worried at the man’s tunic collar, loosening it.
Ailen stepped away. “Check his hands,” he said.
Thom turned Willy’s hands palm up. They were burned red-raw.
“Stay here, Willy. Thom and I can see to the devil.”
“Not in a month of Sundays.” Willy sucked air through his teeth and fought his way to standing. “We’ve spooked the blighter now. You’re going to need me to chant, to help chain it. First, though, you’re going to need to coax the flibbertigibbet out of its hiding place—”
Ailen glanced at Thom. “The poltergeist likes you. I need you to lure it out.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It can burn down the cathedral about our ears but it can’t harm you.”
“Someone has been harmed, though. We heard the cry.” Thom looked pained. “It sounded like Naw.”
Ailen pointed through the doorway. “Let’s deal with the ghost first. Then we can help our man.”
They exited the vestibule to find the sun had gone in. The nave was cavernous and very dark. From the south side of the building came the crash of swords, blasts of fire from Popule’s revolver and the young canon’s quivering prayer.
“On second thoughts, I’m going to help Naw and the others first.” Ailen pointed in the direction of The Sleeping Children monument. “I know where to find you.”
Ailen arrived in the South Transept to see Popule fire off a salt spray and the five ghost warriors who had him cornered fade at their edges. He looked for the canon and found him muttering prayers and gone wild about the eyes. Naw bled at his feet. The sigil provided them with a circle of protection, but if Popule and Ailen were to catch the spirits, they would need the trap to be empty.
“Canon!” he shouted, avoiding the arc of a ghost’s axe by bending low. “I need you to exit the sigil if we’re going to tie the spirits down.”
“But they’ll destroy us the instant we step off,” answered Nicholas, close to tears.
Ailen chuckled. “How soon you adopt our wicked pagan ways, Canon.” Again, he avoided the fall of the axe and, seconds later, the huge sword that was swung towards his throat. “Have faith in your own spells,” he called. “Prayer will keep the ghosts at bay long enough.”
The canon looked doubtful. Ailen had no choice but to trust that the man would exit the sigil in time, and hopefully drag Naw out too. Charging towards Popule like a bull elephant, Ailen cried, “I’m going to pipe them in. Salt ain’t enough. These spirits are too ancient and justified.”
Justified in misunderstanding the alterations to the building and wanting to keep their deathbed intact, he thought as he ran through the salt mist, tasting it on his lips. Figures came at him, their burned flesh, whited eyes and flashing weapons seemingly birthed from Hell. Ailen fought their blows with bursts of notes from his dragon pipe. Ahead, the three kings flickered beneath the stained glass window. Their crowns were thorny, their bodies elongated like men put to the rack. Ailen didn’t need them to speak to sense the tremendous anger issuing from them. He would have liked to reason with the three ancients – reassure them that the stonemasons were repairing, not destroying. But he knew enough about ghosts to understand they were capable of raw emotion but otherwise inflexible.
His tune quickened as he approached the kings. Images smoked in his mind – hundreds slaughtered by Roman hands, crowns falling into pools of blood. The noise of battle tenderized his brain. Still he played, steam spilling from the mouth of the instrument. The images broke, spraying up pain and torn flesh and death – so much death. The faces of the kings distorted. Their bodies leaned towards him, drawn to the pipe. Thinner and thinner they stretched, as if hypnotized. In rapid snaps, the dragon pipe’s jaw caught each by a thread.
Ailen walked backwards, towing the spirits in the direction of the sigil. He sensed shadows lunge for him, heard the explosion of salt in the air and knew Popule was keeping the warriors at bay. The kings, meanwhile, became trailing ether. Ailen didn’t look away for a moment but kept on stepping backwards until he saw the chalked line of the sigil underfoot. He heard the canon chanting his Bible passages a few feet away; all he could do was trust in the man to have left sanctuary and taken Naw with him. Stepping to the edge of the sigil, he twisted at the waist, cast out over the chalked circle and released the jaw of the pipe.
It took only seconds for the kings’ spirits to interweave on top of the weird symbols, like stitches in time. The instant their masters were gone, the ghost warriors dissolved. Returned to history.
Ailen nodded at Popule, who returned the gesture. Nearby, Canon Nicholas hugged Naw. His face streaked with blood and tears, the priest’s eyes danced about the walls and he kept up his muttering. The Shakes, thought Ailen.
He would tend to the young man later. First he had a poltergeist to catch.
A distant spectator could be forgiven for mistaking the two young girls in nightgowns and the boy in mummer’s garb for the best of friends. Ailen, though, knew the girls owed their manifestation to a malevolent spirit. Once upon a time he had been interested in the origins of such entities, had studied papers by the great spiritualists of the modern age. It was Willy who had convinced him that there was no reasoning with a poltergeist, no explanation which would aid his understanding or his empathy. There was only the squatting toad of a spirit inside its chosen object, ready to scare or taunt or main on a whim.
Yet seeing Thom conversing with the ghost girls suggested a softer, more human presence. Ailen knew that was a lie. He joined Willy in the shadows.
“The others alive?” Willy nodded sharply in the direction of the South Transept.
“Naw’s wounded. Canon’s got the Shakes. Popule is in one piece.”
Willy glanced up. “Beautiful building, this. Shame it’s built on a field of the dead.” He sucked his gums against the pain of his burned hands and stared back over at Thom. “Seems almost a shame to interrupt them.”
“Aye. If they were what they seem.” Ailen slipped the macabre necklace from around his neck. It was one of Willy’s voodoo creations, made up of dead beetles, lambs’ wool, chicken claws and the dried remains of mice. He pointed at the apparitions of the two girls. “We both know poltergeists love dead things.”
He rattled the necklace. The girls moved on to all fours, shoulders hunching, cocking their heads one way then the ot
her. Hanging the necklace off his belt, Ailen adjusted his grip on his dragon pipe. He muttered: “I could use a little salt in the atmosphere.”
A hand patted his shoulder. Popule’s. The man’s eyes shone crystal blue; the soot covering his face was streaked by sweat.
Popule fed a fresh cartridge into his revolver and spun the barrel shut. Ailen was glad of the backup as he stepped out of the shadows.
“You all right there, Thom?”
“They’re very sad, Mr Savage,” he replied. Ailen felt the familiar twinge of regret not to be recognized as anything more than the boy’s employee. But his own feelings were secondary to the boy’s safety.
“The real sisters are buried miles away, Thom. At peace, let’s hope. Our poltergeist here likes the way their monument looks and has bedded down there. Now I want you to tell your friend it has the choice to leave or we can exorcise it.”
Thom bit his bottom lip. “All right.” He turned back to the girls, who had crawled close, their opaque white eyes rolling.
As Thom spoke to them, Ailen felt the atmosphere still like the surface of a millpond. When the ghost girls started to fade, he felt a tinge of relief. Had Thom really talked the poltergeist into leaving? Wonderful, kind, accident-prone Thom.
A wall of flames rolled around them in seconds, firing off a heatwave. Both girls opened their mouths unnaturally wide and the screams of Lichfield’s martyred issued forth. Ailen steeled himself against the noise as Thom backed away.
The poltergeist had no intention of losing its new friend. The girls’ heads morphed into a mess of silvery, mouth-tipped tentacles while the bodies remained separate. It crawled towards Thom, a crablike Medusa.
“Get away, Thom.” Ailen stepped between the boy and the poltergeist, causing it to rear up on its back limbs, tentacles hissing. “Start chanting, Willy! Popule . . . keep the air full of salt!” he demanded, and put his lips to the reed of the dragon pipe.
Rock salt burst overhead like fireworks and Ailen began to play. The poltergeist tried to sink back into its marble tomb. It tugged at itself as if attempting to prise itself free from thick mud. Ailen quickened his tune and bit out at the spirit with the steaming jaw of the dragon pipe. The poltergeist arched away, a serpentine movement at odds with its crabbed lower limbs. Seconds later, it had scrabbled around to the opposite side of the chalk sigil marked out on the flagstones.
Wind blew in – red hot and scented with decay. Willy’s chanting grew weaker; Ailen suspected the man’s palms were freshly aflame. Blinking against the ash and snow whipped up by the vicious spirit alongside Popule’s salt sprays, he fought to put one foot in front of the other. Blood trickled from his ears, his nose. Ailen pressed on against the tremendous volume of suffering and the searing heat of the funeral pyre from many centuries before. One thought gave him strength – some ghosts stay to ease the agonies of those left behind while others stay to torment those who live on. Unlike Thom, the poltergeist belonged to the latter category and needed to be put back among the demons.
Ailen ran the last few steps, lungs baking against his ribs. He grasped the neck of his dragon pipe, burned the tips of his fingers on the glowing nodules and clamped the steaming jaw around one misty tentacle. The poltergeist writhed, but Ailen held fast this time. Hearing Willy’s voice harden, those ancient, occult words seeming to pepper the poltergeist’s surface like hot coals, Ailen moved to the sigil’s edge.
“I make you an offering. Pieces of death for peace inside this hallowed hall.” Retrieving the voodoo necklace from his belt, he tossed the offering into the chalked circle. Arching at the spine, he cast out with the dragon pipe and released the jaw.
The poltergeist streamed into the sigil, a bolt of silver ether. Writhing and whipping against its bonds, it found itself dragged down over the symbols, one tentacle at a time. As the last thread of it was engulfed, the screams of the martyred ceased. The wall of flame around the men brightened then went out.
A month passed before the large man came to call at The Deanery. Mrs Rook the housekeeper would later describe the pains she was put to, trying to place the gentleman. His suit was of cheap cloth but cut well enough, while a starched collar hugged his neck. But the face – a mask of steel with scars aplenty!
The man’s voice betrayed him. Nicholas recognized its deep tone from his place before the fire and on instinct gripped the blanket tucked over his legs. He forced himself to let go and call, “Mrs Rook! Show Mr Savage in. He and I have business.”
Nicholas heard the housekeeper falter, perhaps afraid of the name. But then she must have ushered in their visitor because the front door closed and heavy footsteps sounded across the hallway.
A man like Ailen Savage didn’t wait to be shown the way. He materialized in the doorway of the sitting room, blocking out what lay beyond.
“Canon Nicholas.”
“Mr Savage. Come in, do. Sit by the fire. Mrs Rook says the weather is unseasonably bitter.”
“I won’t stay long.” The man approached the hearth nonetheless and stood before it, arms crossed, his face looking more weathered in its light. “I didn’t call earlier as I was helping Naw get back on his feet. I see that you too have been nursed back to health,” he said after a few moments.
“Dean Richards has gone to the seaside to continue his recovery. Very kindly, he installed me in the house under the care of Mrs Rook until his return.”
Ailen’s lips curved. “Seems you and the Dean had use for those herbs I gave you after all.”
Nicholas shifted in his seat. “If you are asking if my mind has been opened up to the existence of the supernatural, and to magick worked outside the power of prayer, then the answer is yes, Mr Savage. And, yes, the spirits have left their mark on me.” He touched a finger to the fresh scar in one eyebrow, trying to control the tremors in his hand. When the man opposite him nodded gravely, Nicholas knew he understood that the true scar lay inside.
Keen to change the emphasis of their conversation, he asked, “How did you dispose of the remains of the spirits?” Nicholas’s mind had buckled in the aftershock of events. Glimpses of them came to him occasionally – the cathedral’s fixtures sparkling with salt as if in a new Ice Age . . . Naw collapsed at his feet . . . the air laced with the stench of burning.
Mr Savage kept up his unwavering stare. “We washed the sigils away with holy water. Helps to have an ex-man of the cloth in the form of Popule. He blessed a good few buckets’ worth and we baptised God’s house anew.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” Nicholas liked the sound of the cathedral being newly sanctified, even if at the hands of one of the mummers’ troupe. He retrieved the package tucked in beside him for safekeeping.
“The second half of your fee, Mr Savage. And thank you.”
Washed clean of rags and soot, the chief mummer looked even more intimidating. His large hand took the package and pocketed it.
“You aren’t wearing your costume. Has the mumming season ended?” asked the canon, unsure how to close the conversation.
The man dipped his great head. When he glanced up, tears glistened in his eyes.
“Anniversary of my son’s death. I like to clean myself up once a year, to pay my respects at his grave.”
“I am sincerely sorry to hear of his passing. May the Lord keep him.” Nicholas felt a twist of sorrow in his gut for this strange giant of a man.
“He ain’t ready for the Lord yet,” said Mr Savage. He shook back his shoulders, shrugging off the mantle of mourning.
Nicholas peered quizzically at his guest. But the mummer seemed all talked out. He walked away and filled the doorway once more.
“Goodbye, Canon Nicholas.”
“Goodbye, Mr Savage.”
Heavy footsteps crossed the hall. The canon heard the front door open and felt a blast of cold air across his exposed skin. Seconds later, the door slammed to.
Outside the evening air was sharp and pure. The cathedral loomed before the Spirit Catcher like a rock of ages. Sculptures
burgeoned. Stained glass burned like jewels, lit by internal light. Lichfield slumbered all around.
“Come now, Thom. Let’s go and meet the others,” said Ailen to the ghost boy at his side.
“Yes, Mr Savage,” Thom replied.
Together, father and son stepped out into the night.
Collect Call
Sarah Pinborough
In the end, there was only one person Lee could call. It was, after all, the only number he knew by heart.
He gave it to the operator and waited for the connection to be made. The line crackled. He tapped his fingers on the worn surface of the phone booth wall and breathed into the handset as the line rang. It pealed out to the point where Lee was beginning to think it would just be his luck that today of all days there was no one home, when finally someone picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, sir, we have a Lee Moseby on the line. Will you accept the charges?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
The line cleared as the operator clicked off, taking the unpleasantly sharp crackling sounds with her.
“Dad?”
“Lee?”
Another pause. This time caused by his own awkwardness. It had been a long time.
“Look, this sounds stupid, but I’m at this phone box in the middle of—” he looked out at the hick town that crept into life on the other side of the dusty road “—nowhere, and I – well – I couldn’t think of who else to call.”
“Do you need me to come and pick you up?”
“Yes,” Lee said, surprised to find how relieved he felt. “Yes, please.”
“Stay by the phone, son,” his dad said, as if Lee were a teenager again. “I’ll be there before it gets dark.”
“Thanks. Look, I know—” A crackling dead tone that made his ears buzz cut him off suddenly, and he hung up. His dad clearly had at the other end.
It was a hot day and the booth was like a sauna. He pushed the door open, the squeal of its hinges loud in the quiet afternoon, and stood by the roadside. He guessed he’d been lucky the phone had worked at all. Despite the heat and the still air, he wasn’t thirsty. He should have been – it felt like he’d been walking all day – but his mouth was moist. He wondered about the time and glanced down at his wrist, but his ever-dependable Timex wasn’t there, just the tan line, built up nicely on the golf course, outlining its ghost.
The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) Page 4