by Amy Cross
“Dylan!” I yell, trying not to panic as the flashlight's beam picks out the mottled stone wall of the abbey. “Dylan, where are you? Dylan, over here!”
I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears as I wait, but I can't see Dylan anywhere. He was right behind me in the passage, I even felt him pushing against my back, but now he's disappeared and I don't get where he could have gone. As I take a step back toward the abbey, I shine the flashlight all around, desperately hoping that I'll spot him nearby, but all I hear is my own labored breath.
“Dylan!” I hiss. “Come on, no messing about! We have to get out of here!”
I wait.
Silence.
“Dylan!” I shout. “Run!”
Again I wait.
Again, silence.
Standing all alone on the grass outside the front of the abbey, with a blanket of stars filling the sky above, I aim my flashlight at the abbey's ruined entrance. Every atom in my body is screaming at me to keep running, telling me to get help, but it'd take me at least a couple of hours to reach town and then probably as long again before I could persuade anyone to come out here. In that time, anything could have happened to Dylan. No matter how scared I feel, I know that I can't leave without him. He's my best friend in the whole world.
And anyway, he's probably hiding somewhere and filming this whole thing, ready to put it on YouTube.
Please, let that be what he's doing.
“Dylan!” I yell, close to tears now. “Seriously, man, if you're out here, you have to say something! You've taken this way beyond a joke, okay? If that was some kind of trick app on your phone, making that face, it's not funny!”
I aim the flashlight at the grass, just in case he fell and knocked himself out as we ran out of the abbey, but there's still no sign of him. After a moment I aim the flashlight back toward the abbey's archway, and I know deep down what I'm going to have to do. Maybe this is all a prank, or maybe something really just chased us out of that place, but either way I have to go back for my friend.
“There's no ghost,” I whisper, taking a step forward. “There's nothing. We just panicked, that's all. We're just dumb kids. Creele Abbey isn't even haunted. It's not on any of the lists of haunted buildings.”
I keep reminding myself of that fact as I get closer to the archway. If Creele Abbey was haunted, then there'd be reports about it online. There'd be ghost-hunt videos on YouTube, and people would've blogged about it. There are hundreds of sites about places like the Crafter's End asylum and the church at Deilham and the headless man of Barrington Hall. There are even guided ghost tours to those places. Nobody has ever written about visiting Creele Abbey and getting chased by a ghost.
And that's when my own words come back to me. My words from just twenty minutes ago:
“Or maybe,” I hear my voice whispering, “whatever's here, nobody ever gets to leave and tell about it.”
I swallow hard.
The ruins of the abbey rise high and dark against the sky. As I step forward, making my way back into the darkness, I look up at the ruins' top and see the jagged edges reaching proudly into the night air, and I still feel as if they might close finger-like at any moment and draw me deeper into the void that blocks out all the stars. Every step feels wrong and unnatural, as if by going closer I'm pushing against my most primal and basic instincts, and I have tears in my eyes. At the same time, I could never live with myself if I ran away like a scared little child and left Dylan in trouble. For all I know, in the midst of our childishness, he might have fallen and hit his head. I have to find him.
After all, when Dylan and I explored Barrington Hall like this a few months ago, we were convinced we saw a headless ghost standing in one of the rooms. We ran like children, and it was only the next day that we dared return, and that's when we realized that the so-called ghost was just an old curtain that had fallen onto a pillar. We felt so stupid. We were stupid. And now, even if this is all a giant prank, I have to grow up and do the right thing.
Dylan was wrong.
I'm not a little baby.
I'm a man. In fact, I reckon I'm more grown up than he'll ever be.
Ducking down, I step through a section of the broken outer wall, making my way into the roofless space with the altar at the far end.
“Dylan!” I call out, shining my flashlight all around as I step forward. “Dylan, what -”
Suddenly the flashlight's beam catches the stone altar ahead, and I freeze as I see that there's a figure on there, flat on its back with its arms and legs hanging over the sides. As soon as I spot the Rainingham Athletic logo on one of the shoulders, I know that it's Dylan, although I have no idea why he'd be up there on the altar like that. Either he climbed up himself as part of some elaborate joke, or someone put him there.
I cast the beam around, making sure that there's no sign of anyone, and then I start edging closer to the altar.
“Dylan!” I hiss. “Come on! Stop messing about and let's go!”
He doesn't respond.
“Dylan, you're taking this too far!”
I'm just a few feet from the altar now and I can see that Dylan's eyes are wide open, staring up toward the ruined ceiling and at the stars above. I watch his face, hoping for some hint of a response, but after a moment I realize that he doesn't seem to be blinking. At the same time, above the sound of my own heartbeat and the noise of my feet in the grass, I can hear a faint dribbling sound, as if some kind of liquid is hitting metal.
“Dylan,” I continue, finally reaching out and touching his leg, giving the fabric of his trousers a tug. “Come on, man. A joke's a joke and you're going too far with this one. I know you think you're being all grown-up, but actually you're just being childish.”
“Totally childish,” I add under my breath.
His face still seems frozen, still staring up at the stars, and there looks to be some kind of water in his eyes. Tears, maybe. But why would he be crying? And how would he be crying without making a sound, unless the tears were earlier and now he's...
“Dylan! Get up!”
When he still doesn't reply, I realize the dribbling sound seems louder. I glance over my shoulder again, just to make absolutely sure that there's no sign of anyone, and then I start making my way around to the altar's other side. As I do so, my left foot bumps against a stone, sending it bumping down against the ground. The sound is surprisingly loud and I freeze for a moment, terrified that I might have drawn attention to myself. I shine the flashlight back the way I just came, just in case there's any sign of someone, and then I continue to make my way around the altar.
I can tell I'm getting closer to the source of the dribbling sound, and finally the beam from my flashlight picks out an old, dented metal bowl resting on the stone floor.
A shudder runs up my spine.
Some kind of dark liquid is dribbling into the bowl, splashing against the sides. I aim the flashlight, casting the beam up the side of the altar, and then I feel a tightening sense of dread in my chest as I see that a sharp metal pipe has been driven into Dylan's neck. Blood is running freely from the pipe, splattering into the bowl below, although as I stare in horror the blood slows to a trickle and then stops, leaving only a few drips, as if Dylan is suddenly empty. Looking down, I see that while the bowl is full to the brim, the grass all around is soaked with blood.
“No no no,” I whisper, too shocked to move. “Please, this is a joke, it has to be a -”
Suddenly I realize that the shirt fabric on my right shoulder is moving slightly, crumpling against my skin. Frozen by fear, I tell myself that I'm wrong, that I'm just imagining the movement or that it's caused by the wind. A moment later, however, I feel five gentle points of pressure pushing down against my shoulder, like the tips of five fingers. Still too scared to turn and look, I clench my teeth and tell myself that I'm letting my imagination run wild. And then, slowly, the fingers are joined by something flatter pressing against my shoulder just a couple of inches lower down. And as the pal
m settles and the fingers tighten their grip, I realize I can no longer deny what's happening.
A cold and bony hand is reaching out to me from the darkness behind.
Emma
Six weeks later
“What's that?” I ask, looking out the car's back window as we speed along another country road. “Hey Lucy, what's that place over there?”
“Eh?”
She glances over briefly from the driver's seat, before turning her attention back to the road.
“That's just Creele Abbey,” she explains. “There's nothing going on there.”
I watch the distant ruins for a moment, before they're obscured by a bank of trees on the roadside. A moment later the ruins come back into view, and I can't help thinking that the tumbledown old place looks pretty spooky out there all alone on the moor, even in the middle of a dull and gray morning.
“Can we stop and take a look?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because it looks cool.”
“We're on a ghost-hunt, not a ramble,” she points out. “We have to be at the Crafter's End asylum by six to meet the others. We don't have time to stop and look at every bunch of old bricks.”
“Yeah, but -”
“Did you read the links I sent you?”
I turn to her. “Sure, but -”
“Crafter's End is supposed to be one of the most haunted locations in the whole of England,” she continues, with glee in her voice. “There are, like, five separate ghosts there. Loads of people have blogged about getting chased away by demonic laughs and cackling voices, and that's before you even get to the mad doctor who's said to haunt the old lab rooms. Seriously, not many people last a whole night there. Sounds wicked, eh?”
“Sure,” I reply, before looking back out and seeing the ruined old abbey getting further and further behind us. “But that place looks kind of freaky too.”
“Creele Abbey?” She laughs. “Nah, there's nothing going on there.”
“How do you know?”
“If there was anything haunting that place, someone would've written about it, wouldn't they? Look it up online if you don't believe me. There are no stories about it at all. Creele Abbey's just a ruin, not like the Crafter's End asylum. Did you hear about those two boys who went missing a couple of months back?”
“At Creele Abbey?”
“Nah, at Crafter's End. That's what the cops think, anyway. One of 'em had been printing out loads of info about the place just before he and his friend disappeared, so the cops reckon they went to Crafter's End and someone nabbed 'em. Of course, they're not big on the theory that maybe one of the asylum's ghosts took the two boys. It's sad, though. They were, like, fourteen and fifteen years old.”
“That's awful,” I reply, watching as the abbey recedes into the distance. “I guess...”
For a moment, I consider asking again if we can go check the place out, but I suppose Lucy knows best. After all, she's the expert on local ghosts and she's been planning this night at Crafter's End for months. If she says Creele Abbey's just a bunch of ruins, then I certainly have no right to disagree, even if I felt a faint sense of discontent just now as we were driving past, almost as if there was a presence out there on the moor, waiting in the abbey and wanting us to go inside. And for a moment, I thought I saw two little boys standing in the ruins, watching us.
“Okay then,” I mutter, forcing myself to focus on our plans for the day. “Tell me more about this haunted asylum.”
Poor Clara
I
They hurry through the streets of dark, uncompassable London, jostling through the heady nighttime crowd as they take their dead daughter to her appointment. She rests wrapped in a shawl in her father's arms, her cold face lolling to one side with closed eyes. Her left arm hangs down, but at an awkward angle that speaks of the hours that have passed since her last breath and of the rigor mortis that has begun to set in. Soon, it will be too late for her to be helped. To all intents and purposes, it is too late already. Any reasonable person would see that the child is dead.
Yet hope lingers.
“This way!” Mary shouts, grabbing her husband's arm and leading him down a side-street.
“Are you sure?” Joseph asks, having to turn almost sideways in order to carry his daughter's body past the ogling men gathered nearby. “Ogier said -”
“Ogier said to go down behind the Dog and Duck Inn,” Mary hisses, “and then on to Broad Street.”
“But that's -”
“We're taking a short cut!”
“Is that wise?”
“Wise?” She pushes through a group of drunk men, clearing the way for her husband to follow. “What's wise anymore? This is the shortest way!”
“Had a few too many ales, has she?” one of the drunkards calls after them. “Bring her back here! I know a way to wake her up!”
Ignoring the catcalls, Mary and Joseph continue to hurry along the alley, desperate to reach their destination as quickly as possible. Every few seconds, Joseph glances down at his daughter's dead face, hoping against hope that he might see some sign of life. He knows, though, that the hand of death has long since touched her soul, and the truth is that in his heart he has already accepted the loss. Just nineteen days old, she is gone now, his only daughter. Still, he loves his wife, and he knows he must indulge her hopes. But at what point, he wonders, does that indulgence become a kind of cruelty?
“What did he say about the square?” Mary asks, stopping up ahead as they reach Grimes Square, set a short way behind the Dog and Duck Inn. She turns, looking along the various dark alleys that lead off from the space. After a moment, she turns to her husband with tears in her eyes. “Which way?” she screams. “Come on, think!”
“I don't...” he starts to say helplessly. “Mary, I'm not sure that I...”
“Remember!” she yells at him.
Joseph opens his mouth to answer her, but no words come out.
“Perhaps,” he says eventually, “we should...”
Mary turns to him, her face a rictus of grief and anger.
“What?” she asks, even though it is clear that she already suspects a change of heart.
Looking down at his daughter's dead body, Joseph feels suddenly calm as the rush of the past few minutes begins to subside. He can feel the child's icy skin through her thin shawl, and he has seen the face of death enough times to know how it looks. He wants so badly to believe that his wife is right, but he can't deny that the weight in his arms feels dead.
“What's wrong with you?” Mary asks, her voice beginning to crack as tears flow freely. “Why do you look so sad, Joseph? Why do you look at her as if she is gone forever?”
“Perhaps we should face the truth,” he replies, still staring at the dead girl's closed eyes. “We've lost her, my love. She left us many hours ago, and even Doctor Reynolds said there was nothing that could be done for her. The wasting disease clawed her down, and this idea of somehow reviving her...” He pauses, before looking over at Mary. “She's gone,” he says, his voice trembling with tears. “She's dead, and instead of running through the streets with her body, we should focus on giving her a good, Christian burial. It's the right thing to do.”
“You would give up so easily?” Mary asks.
“She's dead,” Joseph replies. “If man could reverse such a tragedy, I would fight until my own dying day, but death is death and her life is over.”
“Then you must give her to me,” Mary says, stepping forward and holding out her arms. “If you tire of carrying our daughter, then -”
“I do not tire,” he replies, “but please, think about -”
“I can carry her,” Mary continues, reaching under the body and trying to take her from his arms, even though he resists. “You do not need to come any further. I will not look poorly upon you. Most likely, you are right, but while this chance remains, I must take her and at least see if anything can be done.” She struggles to take the girl's full weight. “Joseph, you can let g
o of her. I'll take her from here.”
“You don't need to,” Joseph replies.
“I understand, you're -”
“We're here,” he adds.
Pausing, Mary stares at her husband for a moment, seeing the fear in his eyes, before turning and looking back across the dark square. After running for almost an hour through London's dark streets, they are for the first time in a spot where no-one else seems to be lurking, as if a dead space has been cleared out in the heart of the bustling city. A moment ago they seemed to be still in the midst of all the chaos, yet now it is as if London itself has drawn back to leave a calm, quiet area. Looking first at one building, then at another, Mary finally spots a small, misshapen door that is undeniably the one described to her by Ogier. Mary's heart, still racing after the journey, skips a beat.
“Are we...”
“We're here,” Joseph says, as a chill wind blows through the square. “Do you remember what Ogier said? We have to search, but ultimately the house will find us. We have only to go inside.”
Still staring at the door, Mary seems frozen in place for a moment. Finally, she turns to her husband and opens her mouth to ask him if he's sure, although the words catch in her throat. Up until this moment, she has believed absolutely and without doubt that this is the right course of action, but suddenly a doubt has begun to blossom in her mind. Deep down, she knows that if this attempt fails, there'll be no more chances. Hope is all she has left, and now she faces the prospect of putting that hope to the ultimate test.
“You truly believe this might work,” Joseph continues sadly, “don't you?”
He waits for an answer.
“Don't you?” he asks.
“If we do not try,” Mary replies, with a tear rolling down her cheek, “we shall have no option but to put our poor, dear child into the ground. I could never live with myself if I knew I had not exhausted every possibility. But Joseph, I know you don't believe in these same things. You see the world as a rational place, a place of logic and rules, and you have always mocked my superstitions. I cannot ask you to come with me into this house if you truly believe that it is a mistake. I am willing and able to take her alone from this point, if you will just wait outside for us.”