“I know this is designed to throw me off balance,” Gould said, eventually. “It's a very obvious ploy.”
“But knowing it is a ploy does not stop it from working,” murmured Benson, finally looking at his subordinate. “Which is my point with regards to our guest downstairs. If it were to plant certain ideas in your mind, you would be suspicious. But if they were attractive enough you might still act upon them.”
Gould bridled at the imputation.
“You think that monster could influence my mind?” he said. “After all I've seen, everything I've been through?”
Benson gazed at Gould, his eyes half-closed, his mouth twisted up in his familiar humorless smile.
“It could influence anyone's mind,” he said. “Think of Barrett, that hapless raw recruit. It took Lucy less than an hour to radically subvert his sense of duty, not to mention his basic commonsense.”
“I'm not some young lad just out of the army,” retorted Gould.
“True,” said Benson. “You are a veteran field operative and a remarkable theorist. But it knows you. Has been close to you.”
Gould stood up, feeling slightly absurd, knowing that storming out of the office would merely make his situation worse.
“What's this leading up to, Benson?” he snapped. “Am I on gardening leave from now on, or what?”
Benson shook his head.
“Check your emails,” he said. “I have an interesting case for you to look into. It's up in the Lake District, not far from Carlisle. People have been seeing strange creatures in the hills. Could be significant.”
“Let me guess – you're sending me a few hundred miles out of the way to look at some internet rumors,” stated Gould, flatly. “Is Siberia fully booked?”
Benson sighed, folded his hands on the desk in front of him, looked down at his interwoven fingers.
“You can choose not to go,” he said. “But that would be unfortunate for your prospects here.”
***
Denny decided to read the war diary back in her room at the Black Swan. She returned to the inn to find Phoebe, the grumpy teen, serving a handful of pre-lunchtime drinkers. Mel was nowhere in sight. Eyes followed Denny as she passed through the bar and mounted the stairs to her room. She made a point of smiling at the stone-faced British boozers. Then she waved and gave a cheerful 'Hi!' She knew it confused them.
Pelham's handwriting was not very good, and varied in quality – dependent, Denny thought, on the kind of pressure he was under. Early entries dealt with basic training in 1914-15, and she found herself skimming these. Eventually, though, Pelham was sent to the front line in Belgium, where he joined the British Expeditionary Force.
Denny soon learned that trench warfare consisted mostly of long periods of boredom and occasional flare-ups of vicious fighting. The diary began to seem repetitive again after Pelham got used to the routine. He hated the food, he had lice, there were rats in the trenches. Occasional bright spots included periods of rest behind the lines. Skimming some more she almost missed the first reference to something unusual.
April 4th 1916
My unease about the Covenant has never quite gone away. All through basic training, I wore the talisman delivered by Ma Wakefield. Many times, I took it off, looked at it, and thought about discarding it. But I could never bring myself to get rid of the thing.
I still cannot quite believe what happened on that night. No one mentioned it again – not one of the men from the town who joined the army when I did. I think we all pushed the memory to the backs of our minds. But then things started happening that were not easy to explain. I began to hear mutterings about so-called Jonahs in the regiment – men it was unlucky to be around. Invariably the 'Jonah', if identified, would be a man from Machen.
Soldiers are superstitious folk, of course. It is easy to discount rumors of this sort. But yesterday something happened that I cannot easily dismiss. It was just after dawn and we were making the best of a cold breakfast in the forward trench when the sound of artillery broke out on our flank. The Germans were bombarding a position to the south.
We immediately took cover as best we could, knowing that the enemy might well extend his barrage to us. Sure enough, small stuff – mostly light field guns – opened up on us just after eight. Then something landed in the trench a couple of yards away. It splashed down into a couple of inches of filthy water, an anticlimactic sound. But I could see that it was a heavy mortar round, and that it would probably kill everyone in my unit if it went off.
Without thinking, I hurled myself into the puddle, covering the bomb with my body. I closed my eyes, feeling sure that I was about to meet my Maker. I remember thinking that I wanted to die instantly, blown cleanly to atoms, rather than feel my guts blown out. A second passed, then another, and I was still alive, still conscious. The sound of the artillery bombardment continued. I heard my company sergeant swear profusely.
I opened my eyes, then gradually got to my hands and knees. Underneath me, the mortar bomb looked unremarkable, a dull-colored cylinder with a few letters and numbers stenciled on the end. I stood up carefully and retreated around a corner of the trench, where the rest of my men were huddled.
“It's a bleedin' dud,” the sergeant exclaimed.
“Jesus Christ, what a lucky bastard,” muttered another man.
“Well done sir,” said a third.
Today, I learned that the colonel, having heard about what I did, has recommended me for some kind of medal. Perhaps I deserve one. But even if I receive it, I don't think I will feel especially proud. Because what happened after I got up and walked away led to more rumors, sidelong glances, doubts.
The sergeant delegated two young privates to go and clear the 'dud' from the trench. It's always a ticklish business, handling faulty ordnance, but I was looking on and I saw them do nothing wrong. No, it was clear enough what happened. The first man was just about to crouch down next to the bomb when it went off. He was killed instantly. His comrade was behind him, partially screened from the blast. He lived long enough to be taken back to the field hospital. From what I saw, he lost his eyes, much of his face. I am ashamed to think it, but it might be more merciful if gangrene sets in and he dies rather than live like that.
After the wounded man had been evacuated, the men started talking about what might have caused the explosion. Some were naturally inclined to set it down to sheer bad luck. A faulty fuse, something nobody could take account of. But others looked furtively at me and passed comments when I was out of earshot. I asked the sergeant what was being said, and he seemed uncomfortable.
“Just a lot of daft talk, sir,” he insisted. “Nothing to worry about.”
I wish I could believe that. But I think the damage is done, now. I am a 'Jonah' from Machen, too. I fear that the trust that forged between me and the men under my command over so many months has begun to unravel.
What the hell is the Covenant? she wondered. The word was vaguely familiar.
She looked it up and found that it did not, as she had suspected, have anything to do with the paranormal. Or at least, not directly. It was an old-time term for a binding agreement. But the reference to 'Ma Wakefield' made her wonder about witchcraft. She varied her search terms and found one image of the Devil making a 'Solemn League and Covenant' with a witch. Denny made a note of this and went back to Pelham's diary.
April 9th 1916
First thing this morning the cry went up.
“Gas! It's gas, boys!”
A cloud of oily, greenish-yellow vapor drifted in from No Man's Land. It had been released from the German front line trenches and carried out way by the prevailing wind. Despite the alert being sounded promptly, some of the men were slow to put on their gas capes and respirators. One, a seventeen-year-old called Priestley, started panicking. It turned out that his respirator was faulty and gas had leaked in through the filter. A corporal did the sensible thing, ran along the trench – despite a hail of enemy fire – to the forward supply depo
t to get a spare. Priestley had lost his reason by this point. He tore off his mask, and in his terror, began inhaling great lungfuls of poison.
I took off my respirator and put it on Priestley. Part of me knew this was madness, that the gas would kill me or at least leave me blind, or crippled. As soon as I removed the mask, the sting of chlorine made me start to retch. Yet another part of my mind was telling me to test the talisman, to see how far I could push this supposed good fortune that the Covenant brings. Perhaps a part of me also wanted to show the men that I was like them, an ordinary mortal.
In a matter of moments, I had collapsed and was heaving, bringing up the morning's porridge and eggs. My eyes streamed, it felt as if my throat was on fire. I must have lost consciousness for a moment, because the next thing I knew, spring sunshine was falling across the trench. The attack was over, all trace of the gas vanished like morning mist. Faces looked down at me.
“He's all right,” said one, and the man offered me a hand to get up.
I thanked him, of course. But the tone of his voice, the expression on his face, spoke volumes. He and the others were full of doubt and suspicion. How could their captain have survived unscathed without a gas mask? I ask myself the same question as I write this. I have a sore throat. My eyes are slightly reddened. But my breathing is unimpaired
Could the enemy have blundered in some way? Was the gas less effective than normal? No. After all that I have seen since coming to the front, I have no doubts concerning the efficiency of German industry. The explanation for my good fortune, I am sure, lies back in Machen, or more precisely in Branksholme Woods.
Now, when I close my eyes at night and try to sleep, I see those creatures taking the child. My life, the lives of all my fellow townsmen, for one innocent.
It was a bad bargain.
June 8th, 1917
So many months during which nothing strange occurred –I had almost persuaded myself that the so-called Covenant was indeed nonsense. But after the events of last night, I can never deceive myself again.
Three of us were on guard in a forward trench. Myself, Sergeant Paterson, and Private Welch were, as usual, rationing out our supply of cigarettes. As the officer, it always behooves me to share my 'cigs', as they call them. It was just after midnight when I felt the usual craving, took out my cigarette case, and offered it round. The usual muttered thanks was followed by the flare of a match – the sergeant lit his own cigarette, then offered to light mine.
I had just inhaled the first blessed lungful of tobacco when I saw that Paterson had not nipped out the match, but was lighting Welch's cigarette too. Welch, a new recruit fresh from training, could have had no idea what Paterson was doing wrong. How such an experience NCO could have made the error I do not know. It's a fundamental rule – lighting the first cigarette alerts Jerry to your position. Second cigarette, time to take aim. Lighting the third cigarette means the sniper is squeezing the trigger.
I think I shouted something, an incoherent warning, but it was too late. A tremendous blow struck me on the left side of my chest, just above the heart. I fell backwards, certain that I was mortally wounded. But instead, I simply lay in the dried mud, feeling a throbbing ache spread across my upper torso. It was Paterson who fell, forwards across me. I felt a gush of hot liquid soaking my uniform. He had been hit squarely in the throat. The burning match fell from his hand, guttered, went on.
Welch was frozen in shock, so I had to heave the sergeant's body off myself. I assumed that two shots had been fired, and that one had somehow grazed me, while the second had killed Paterson. Then I remembered my cigarette case in my jacket's breast pocket. I took it out, and while I could not see it, I could feel the dent the sniper's bullet had made. It had ricocheted off and killed Paterson.
The talisman had done its job again.
November 11th 1918
Well, it's over. The rumors were true – an Armistice has been signed with the Germans, and the Kaiser has gone into exile. It was my task to convey the news to the men this afternoon. They managed a faint cheer, but I could see that they were exhausted. Perhaps, also, they were skeptical, unwilling to believe any good news after enduring so many years of suffering.
No word yet of when we will be going home. There is talk of an occupation army for Germany, of peace talks that will last for months. So, I cannot take it off. Though all reason dictates that this trivial pendant cannot shape my fate, I will not remove it until I am sure that I will return home.
Denny turned a few more pages, but Pelham did not mention the talisman again. Instead, he wrote about the gradual demobilization of the British army, of precious letters from home. Then, on December 24th, he wrote,
Christmas Eve, my fourth in the king's uniform. I am so far from home in a foreign land. The talisman feels heavy around my neck, now. Since the fighting is over, I feel I should take it off. What can happen to me now? I will take it off. I must take it off.
The last sentence was underlined, the pencil pressing so hard that it had gone through the thin paper.
Denny felt a sense of trepidation as she turned more pages. At first, it seemed that Pelham would make it home to his family. But then she found a reference to 'some kind of outbreak'. More remarks about 'influenza' spreading among the soldiers of all nations. Then Pelham simply stopped writing, in the middle of an entry.
It took her a few moments to find the correct historical data. In 1918 the so-called Spanish Flu had killed more people than all those who had died in the Great War. She looked up Sir Reginald Pelham and confirmed that he was one of the victims. His wife and young children had also died in the epidemic, 'extinguishing the ancestral line', as the internet history site put it.
Denny put the diary back in the box and picked up the pendant again. She thought of the story, 'The Monkey's Paw.' So many cautionary tales contained the idea that wishes granted merely led to disaster. And yet Pelham did not strike her as a foolish, gullible man falling prey to superstition. She flipped back and forth through the diary, trying to find out more about the mysterious 'Covenant', but gave up after a few minutes. She would have to read the entire book to make sure.
Perhaps more importantly, though, was the reference to Ma Wakefield. She tried to determine if this woman might be an ancestor of Doctor Wakefield, but this time the internet let her down. British records of births, marriages, and deaths were hard to figure out. What's more, some old paper files had been lost – to fires, floods, wartime air raids.
Denny's phone chimed. She checked it to find an email from Gould. Opening it, she gasped at the color photo of the church mural. Clearly, there had been a long-standing tradition in Machen, the mysterious 'Covenant' going back into medieval times. She remembered Gould's theory that once the Interlopers had existed in something like harmony with primitive humans. Things the false Lucy had said during its attempt to kill Denny supported this idea, that an old agreement had broken down.
She thought of the list of World War Two dead in the church. Evidently, no paranormal protection had been offered to Machen's menfolk in 1939.
Why would that be?
“Because nobody knew how to ask for it, dumb-ass,” she said aloud.
The more Denny thought about it, the more sense it made.
After 1918, the world had been in chaos, what with revolutions, technological change, the Wall Street Crash and its aftermath. Denny was no expert, but she recalled enough history to know that small farming communities in the US had suffered badly between the wars. A little Googling showed that a similar crisis had hit British farming. A town like Machen would have been badly disrupted.
If anyone was still alive who remembered the old ways when another war came, they were obviously in no position to revive them. The war and the flu epidemic, plus general social upheaval, had ended the sinister tradition. The Covenant had simply been forgotten, lost with so many other, more innocent folk customs.
And now they're back, she thought. Replacing children, killing adults. No mentio
n of any Covenant. No communication. But why?
***
After Gould left, Benson turned on the monitor again. Lucy was apparently asleep, curled up on its small, Spartan bed. But a few moments after Benson began watching, the creature opened its eyes and looked up at the camera. Benson grew tense, leaned forward. He imagined his mind reaching down into the sub-basement, tendrils of thought penetrating Room 101.
Can you hear me?
Lucy nodded, face serious.
What do you really want?
Lucy smiled at that.
“Everything,” she said. “We want your world.”
Benson frowned, focused his thoughts again.
Why?
“Because ours is nearly finished, you silly man.”
What is happening to your world?
“Collapsing, dying, failing.”
But how can you survive in this world? It is too alien, too hazardous.
The false child's smile faded. She turned away from the camera, stared at the cell door. Then she curled up again, facing the wall.
Benson sent the question again, repeating the demand for information for several minutes. Then he gave up and simply watched the creature, wondering if it really had gone to sleep.
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