The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Marie collected the other two. “It’s not him.” She backed further away. “It’s not him, Dinger.” She shrieked at the twisted visage of her dead sibling. “What have you done with my brother, you bastard?”

  It half-rose and became aware of their presence.

  Both pieces of the struggling split corpse found each other, their joints re-connecting and fusing together. Flesh crept and flowed over the whole, like spreading tree roots filmed in time-lapse.

  Darren’s voice lost its anger to a deliver calm declaration borne of futility. “Run, Angel.”

  All his life, Stephen Colefax resisted any tendency towards radical religious interpretation and practice. His was an existence of liturgical observance, following comforting rhythms of the ecclesiastical calendar. Christenings, First Holy Communion, Confirmation, Marriage and Death; such were the life events that saturated his world with calm predictability. The act of imbuing Christmas, Easter and Harvest Festival with uplifting words of encouragement from the scriptures, ever proved the limit of his religious zeal. Colefax was a vicar who always looked for the best in people and expected The Almighty to pardon anyone others might deem beyond the pale. It came as some surprise to himself when the flames of spiritual ire seared through the very marrow of his bones. Everything about his corruptible, mortal flesh pleaded with him to flee the other way. Instead, the ageing minister ran towards the creature that had tormented his sleep one too many times. The beast that appeared to hold these twisted, semi-resurrected monsters in thrall to its diabolical will. Twin lamps of those glowing green eyes fell on the penguin-like, almost bald old man puffing towards it. As he ran, Colefax’s cross and chain swung free from his tunic and glittered in the dancing firelight all around. The captain of that ungodly host howled with rage at the Christian symbol. Bony arms lifted in fury, it spat out a curse with unfathomable hatred. The vicar lowered his gaze to the leather pouch that still swung about its neck. He didn’t understand the dreams which had come to him during the cold night watches. But every one of them featured those parchment inscriptions and this denizen of hell. Somehow it was all tied into the phylactery Robert Mason mentioned, when they dug up the skeleton beneath bramble bushes in his churchyard. Stephen didn’t know whence might come the physical strength to best this foe and relieve it of those cursed documents. He was an old man, testing his modest faith against that of something far more ancient. An involuntary - almost Catholic - prayer rose to his lips unbidden. “St. Guthlac, help me.” From somewhere amongst the huts behind, a young woman screamed with complete abandon. Stephen’s footsteps faltered. He bolstered his reserve with words of scripture. “No weapon formed against us shall prosper.” He flung himself without care, planning or concern for the outcome, straight at the bellowing monster. A gunshot blast erupted from the proximity of those woman’s screams. Stephen Colefax connected with the skeletal beast, causing them both to crash into the wattle and daub wall of a burning hut. The structure crumbled behind and the pair fell through. Burning rafters crashed down on top of them. Martin Bradbury darted between lumbering corpses to help the courageous man of God. Another gunshot cut across the deafening melee from the same location. Beneath those burning roof timbers, furious, long-dead hands tore through the vicar’s garments. Blood poured from wounds inflicted with blinding speed and relentless malice. Like Christ scourged ahead of crucifixion, the determined old man held fast to his mission. Martin Bradbury’s face appeared through the burning, interlocking timbers. He pulled them aside and hacked at the glowing green corpse with a broad-bladed knife. One skeletal limb pinning the minister in place, came away at the shoulder socket. In the blink of an eye, growing slivers of flesh started to knit the damage back together. That momentary release proved long enough for the reverend to pull himself free. Another bony hand burst from beneath the timbers. It punched straight through the thatcher’s epiglottis. Fingers clicked; pierced bulging flesh at the rear of his neck and clamped tight. With a sickening snap, Martin’s windpipe crushed and folded. Blood poured from the puncture wound and soaked the monster’s unwavering appendage. As time slowed at the moment of that parishioner’s death, Stephen Colefax could almost swear he watched his deliverer’s soul depart. The collapsed, flaming timbers shook from a hideous shriek delivered by the evil creature. When it uttered another, the remaining beams dissolved as if melted by acid. At that same moment, Martin’s dead eyes rolled back and a maniacal grin spread across his whitening face. The vicar didn’t pause. He stumbled from the collapsing remains of the hovel to weave between the approaching figures of Timothy Leonard and Sarah Claridge. That reminder of his beloved youngest flock members - transfigured by evil - added furious agency to his tired limbs. Gone were the happy dreams of standing before those precious youngsters as they took vows of holy matrimony. The risen commander of hell’s legions had trespassed on the holy life that old vicar held dear. Now it would reap the whirlwind for its transgressions. Onward he ran, through the lychgate and up the churchyard path to join Constance Creek, Darren Clements and Marie Saint in their desperate dash for sanctuary. One hope burned in his breast and pressed against the flesh of his wrinkled right palm. He’d pulled free the creature's phylactery with its arcane contents.

  Daniel Charter sprinted for the smithy, Naomi Hargreaves close at his heels. The builder’s widow didn’t follow him out of any idle fancy left over from earlier problems with Joe. Those fleeting mental compensations for an erstwhile lack of marital intimacy, faded when she and her husband buried the hatchet. The woodworker and blacksmith represented a quiet, strong and reliable presence in her life. He was someone to be trusted. In the space of a day, Naomi had gone from contented housewife, to widow and hostage. More than anyone could assimilate into their soul in such limited time; she was also now a fugitive from some army of monstrous, supernatural beasts. Had she returned to her own hovel, Naomi would not have known what to do. Sticking with Daniel Charter came as second nature and appeared her best chance for survival. He rummaged around in a chest and pulled out an axe with a gleaming edge. “I’ve a hand hatchet here too, if you want it?” He read the hope brimming over in the widow’s eyes. She was relying on him for protection and guidance.

  Naomi gave a slight nod. Her voice came soft and unsure. “Okay.”

  Dan passed her the smaller, bladed implement. “We’d best get to the church.”

  They ran from the forge up a slight incline leading to the lychgate. Dean and Michaela Claridge met them halfway. Two further figures hesitated near the churchyard boundary.

  The butcher placed a reassuring hand in the small of his wife’s back to gee her along and draw attention to the waiting pair ahead. “Look, that must be Pete and Maggie.”

  As the four runners drew nearer, their pace slowed when the waiting farmers pivoted with a lurch to face them.

  “God help us.” Dean stepped in front of his wife, meat cleaver raised.

  Maggie Leonard hissed through gritted teeth. She tore forward with fleet steps, in stark contrast to the lumbering gait these things evidenced under normal movement. If ‘normal’ was a word that applied to anything during the madness of that nightmare Halloween. She ripped at the butcher with sharp fingernails. An inhuman strength bolstered the force of her blows. Dean sidestepped each attempted strike, chopping at her thrusts with the common tool of his trade. The woman’s severed fingertips tumbled through the air like so many fresh Chipolatas. Maggie shrieked in anger and frustration, rather than pain. She threw herself at Dean, knocking him to the ground. Michaela yanked back the attacker’s chin from behind and sliced the blade her husband had given her into the creature’s neck. Between them, Dean and his wife rolled the thrashing body of their former friend down the bank.

  Meanwhile, the transformed Peter Leonard engaged in a series of feints and blows with an axe-swinging Daniel Charter. The smith lost his footing on wet grass and slid onto his back. Naomi Hargreaves attempted to drive the deceased farmer off him with several wild, overbalanced and inexperienced sw
ipes of her hand hatchet. None found their mark, but kept the beast at bay. The crack of a single gunshot blasted behind them. Peter Leonard’s face exploded outward from the exit wound of a 9mm round. Naomi stared across the beast’s shoulder to where Marie Saint stood on the other side of the lychgate, aiming her brother’s handgun. The farmer’s body remained still. Seconds later, its bullet wound began to heal.

  Dean hauled Daniel to his feet.

  Michaela pointed back down the rise. “Look.”

  A swarm of twitching, shrieking bodies poured towards the shallow ascent. At their rear, the skeletal leader with pulsing emerald eyes stared up at the church. Its heart-stopping yell of rage and hatred shook all living witnesses to the core.

  Marie Saint pulled open the waist-high lychgate panels. In her grief at watching the murder of her brother, that terrified young woman found reserves of courage she'd never known. “We’d better get inside.”

  Dean, Michaela, Daniel and Naomi ran for the church. Marie started off ahead of them. At the main door, Robert Mason and Darren Clements stood ready to secure the only thing that would separate them all from certain destruction.

  The last surviving stragglers of Deeping Drove skidded into the church porch. Behind, their infuriated pursuers had already gained the churchyard boundary and funnelled through the lychgate. Robert and Darren slammed the door and slid fast interior bolts.

  Thumping bodies collided with and shook the entranceway. Its thick wooden component panels shuddered with every insane impact.

  Reverend Colefax pointed at the table on which they had once laid the unearthed skeleton and drowned body of Timothy Leonard. “You can use that to brace it.” He stumbled against the back of a pew and held on with both hands. Blood still poured from his wounds. The vicar sank to his knees in pain.

  Dean Claridge grabbed one end of the table. Robert Mason lifted the other. They propped the sturdy piece of antique furniture at a slight angle to the door. Any attempt to batter the portal down, would only push it further against the main church superstructure.

  Darren surveyed their handiwork. “Unless they torch the door or remove it from the outside, that should buy us some time. The wood's thick and old. It won't catch fire without a lot of effort.”

  Abigail Walters helped the minister up off the cold floor. She sat him on one of the long, polished seats to take a mental inventory of his trauma. “Bob, pass me some of that salve we brought from my hut.”

  The historian handed her a pottery jar and cloth.

  Abigail unfastened Colefax’s tunic. “This might sting a little, Reverend.” She wiped the cloth across some salve in the pot and applied it to jagged wounds on his chest. The man flinched, but a kind and appreciative glint sparkled in his straining eyes. “Thank you, my child.”

  Abigail shot him her signature, cheeky grin. It was the first one she'd managed in some time and had no idea whence it arose. “I’m a bit old to be your child. Thanks for the thought.”

  Constance drew nearer to sit across from them. “How is he, Abigail?”

  The herbalist stared the old minister straight in the eye as she answered Connie’s question. “Looks like he’s lost a lot of blood. Unless we get him to a hospital, I don’t think he’ll make it.”

  15

  A Tale Told

  Marie Saint flopped into a pew. She rested the pistol beside her and sank her head into both hands. Seconds later she jumped up, grabbed the gun and paced along the aisle. “What happened out there? What’s going on?”

  Daniel Charter slid down to sit on the flagstone floor with his back against the western wall and sighed. “You think any of us have more of a clue? I’d heard some freaky tales about this place; but they were ghost stories. Nothing about dead bodies getting resurrected and possessed by whatever is controlling them. They killed Pete and Maggie. Who else did we lose?”

  “My brother.” Marie stamped her foot.

  Dan considered delivering a harsh remark about that not being a great loss, given recent events. He didn’t have the heart. They were all suffering. Besides, the furious woman carried Jason’s gun and seemed willing and able to use it.

  Reverend Colefax caught his breath after a fresh bout of pain. “Martin died saving my life. That thing crushed his windpipe.” He paused in thought. “Such news would be grave enough to bear on its own. But I watched his lifeless body re-animate with one of those demonic souls at the helm. That skeletal holy man appears to be in command. It’s some perverse, inverted parody of The Messiah.”

  Michaela Claridge sat down with her husband. She regarded Abigail. “Why did you dig that thing up?”

  The vicar raised one hand in a gesture of peace. “I saw the creature long before we excavated it.”

  The teacher frowned. “Where?”

  “In my dreams.”

  Abigail moved across to tend to Michaela’s wounds. “In your nightmares, you mean.”

  Colefax shrugged. “Precisely that. Many times over. Don’t blame yourself for our predicament, Abigail. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. A spiritual darkness has been rising here far too long. I believe God has shown me a way to defeat it, for such a time as this.”

  Naomi Hargreaves sat upright, looked around and cocked her head. “Listen.”

  The church became silent.

  Marie Saint broke the peace. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Darren climbed on one of several scattered, individual chairs to peer out from the base of a high, stained-glass window. “That’s what she means, Angel. They’ve stopped hammering on the door. What did everybody bring to fight with?”

  Dean, Michaela, Daniel and Naomi held up their bladed weapons. Constance sat, hands folded in her lap. The historian lifted a bag of salves, two cob loaves and a pair of lanterns.

  Darren snorted. “Can you kill undead monsters with those?”

  Bob shot him a stern glance. “Can you eat that shotgun? Because it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere in a hurry. But we do have injuries, it’s already getting dark and I imagine we’ll be hungry before long.”

  The robber flushed. He moved back to peering through the decorative coloured glass. “They’re still out there. I can see Martin and the two kids. Maggie and Pete are somewhere close to that green-eyed thing. Who are all these others?”

  “Didn’t you notice the open graves in the churchyard when we came in?” Connie asked.

  Darren gritted his teeth. “Must have missed them, on account of running for my life.” He stole another look. “Crap.” Joseph Hargreaves lumbered around the church perimeter between headstones, now with a half-reconstructed face.

  “What is it?” Naomi rose.

  The robber noticed an inquisitive light in her eyes. Those of a widow he’d made when his shotgun discharged during that desperate struggle on the hut floor with her husband. “Nothing. They’re all milling about out there. I don’t like it.”

  Bob Mason plucked at one eyebrow with unconscious fingers, voice even. “What would you like?”

  Darren jumped down from the chair. His heels clipped on the stone floor. “What would I like? I’d like to get the hell out of here with my girlfriend and our money; that’s what I’d like.”

  “Your money?” Blood rose to Naomi’s cheeks.

  The robber started to speak, but halted when Robert Mason stood up and held his arms wide. “Hold it, hold it. Do we have to do this now? I think we’ve more pressing concerns, don’t you?”

  Abigail’s expression formed into a deadpan look of pure indifference. “Yeah. Let’s work out a way to escape in one piece. Then the shit-bag crims can bugger off with the money they stole from ordinary hardworking people.”

  Darren took an angry step forward, muscles tightening. “Watch your mouth, you old bint.”

  The psychic didn’t blink. “Or what? You’ll kill me? In case you haven’t noticed what happens to dead bodies round here, you might find what’s left more than you can handle. Or did I miss something and one of us has worked out a way
to put these things down for good?”

  Daniel remembered Peter Leonard’s blasted face rebuilding itself. “She’s right. We can’t afford to let any of those creatures in here. And if one of us dies…”

  Abigail met the churchman’s stare with a squint. He was fading fast. Her best efforts only slowed the bleeding; like bailing out a sinking ship with a leaky bucket.

  Stephen Colefax held up the phylactery with one weak arm. “I brought this.”

  Marie Saint paced up and down again. “Oh great, the vicar’s got a leather pouch. That’ll help. Fuck me, it’s like a bloody retards’ party round here.”

  Connie folded her arms. “And we’re so glad you could attend.”

  Marie waved the gun at her. “You’re gonna end up eating a bullet if you don’t shut your trap, you mouthy cow.”

  Abigail leaned forwards. “Didn’t you listen to a word Daniel and I said? If one of us dies, we’re all up shit creek without a paddle. You might not have been paying attention, but Reverend Colefax won’t be collecting his pension if he doesn’t get to a hospital soon. You wanna go toe-to-toe with one of us under the control of those things outside?”

  Robert Mason eased himself down beside the injured minister. “That’s the phylactery from the skeleton’s neck.”

  Stephen Colefax opened it. “Yes. Can you make sense of these writings?”

  The historian studied the texts scrawled with a spidery hand. “No. I’m no linguistic expert, but I’m familiar with a lot of ancient forms. This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  The vicar fingered the parchment. “When we dug it up, you said he was a holy man. Something about them keeping sacred texts in a pouch about their necks.”

  Bob puffed out his cheeks and ran one hand through his grey hair. “I wouldn’t have given it a second thought before today, but have you ever heard of a lich?”

  Colefax shook his head. “As in a lychgate?”