The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  Darren Clements had a peek down the hole. He raised both eyebrows at the churchman. “So your predecessors were fences, of a sort? I’ve underestimated your lot, Reverend.”

  Dean and Michaela Claridge got up from their pew. The butcher took a closer look. “Do you think this tunnel leads to the river? It might be blocked up, except for a tiny crack somewhere. That route can’t have been used in over two centuries.”

  The historian stuck his hand back through the hole to test its breeze. “True. It could also be unstable and prone to collapse. But, there’s a fair amount of air coming through. I don’t see that we have much choice. We either wait for the front door to give way, or try this.”

  Michaela clutched onto her husband. “What if those things are down there? It leads out under the churchyard.”

  Stephen Colefax stood beside her, the chalice trembling between two weak hands. “If they were down there, I suspect we’d already be fighting them off.” He passed the religious cup to the teacher. “Take this with you, Michaela. Pour it into the river.”

  The woman’s eyes watered. “But what about you, Reverend? Shouldn’t you do it?”

  Colefax staggered against the wall. “My time is over. I can’t keep this candle inside alight much longer. You must all go, now. God be with you.”

  The high, stained-glass windows shattered one by one. Burning torches soaked with petrol, cartwheeled down into the nave. A central panel of the front door changed its sound. The wood began to split and shatter.

  Abigail darted from torch to torch. She sloshed a bucket of water from the well across each of the flaming objects.

  Daniel Charter raised Constance to her feet and frogmarched her to the tunnel mouth.

  Darren Clements cocked his shotgun. “Where the fuck do you think she’s going?”

  The smith sighed. “You want her to get killed and join the foes massing against us?” He prodded her in the back. “She can take the lead. If there is something horrid down there, it might be nice if Connie’s the first one to discover it.”

  The flagstone floor shook. Puffs of dirt shot into the air, all about the nave.

  Marie Saint shrieked. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Robert Mason stared along the length of the aisle floor. “Oh, my God. I never considered that.”

  Abigail tugged at his shirt collar, desperate for answers. “Considered what, Bob?”

  “This place. Look at it. Like most old churches, it’s not just a house of worship; it’s also a tomb.”

  Fracture lines spread across horizontal grave markers that formed a large part of the flooring. Their inscriptions tumbled inward, accompanied by clouds of dust. Soul-shredding roars erupted from the disturbed resting places. A claw-like, skeletal hand shot from one to grab Naomi Hargreaves by the ankle. She tumbled into the grave with a scream where the dead embraced her. Daniel Charter got halfway to her rescue, before a full-torso leapt from another pit to pin him against the floor. The struggling pair rolled over and over, as the bodies of more undead former parishioners climbed from their holes of repose. Robert Mason noticed the vicar. He’d slumped to the floor with his back against one wall, dead eyes staring into space. The historian’s gaze moved to the chalice in Michaela Claridge’s hand. Whether there was any credence to the old minister’s dreams, they had to try it. In the last few hours, fantasy and reality had blurred into rising madness. If he ever got out of here alive, the former academic wondered how he’d ever adjust to normal life again. He took over from Daniel and shoved Constance in the back. “Into the tunnel, quick. Dean and Kyla, get in after her.”

  Darren and Marie fired their guns, muzzle flashes in the darkness projecting an army of shambling silhouettes across the stone walls. Each shot blasted pieces from the rising corpses, but only slowed their advance. The front door shattered into splinters. Thrusting, clawing hands squeezed through to pull howling undead bodies past the braced table.

  Robert grabbed Abigail’s arm and yanked her towards the hole. “Get down there and run as fast as you can.”

  The psychic disappeared into the tunnel. A second later her head poked back up. “What about you?”

  There was nothing else for it. Daniel Charter lay dead in a torn and bloody heap near the church font. How much longer before his body rose to attack them? Those honoured, risen dead buried inside the church, swarmed upon the two robbers. “I’m coming.” The historian lowered himself halfway into the tunnel. A human hand grabbed his forearm in restraint; but those white eyes bulging from the dead vicar’s face were not of this world. Half his head exploded in a shower of brains, blood and bone, splattering the stonework. Ricocheting pellets grazed and burned the academic’s skin. Bob shook loose the churchman’s temporarily limp hand. Across from the altar, Darren Clements lay back on the floor, shotgun pointing his way. A silent, knowing, visual exchange of respect took place between the two men. Then three raging corpses ripped the robber’s body to shreds. Marie Saint backed past her fallen boyfriend. She must be almost out of bullets, but there was no way to help her. The historian plunged down into darkness and splashed through ankle-deep, muddy water. He slid and stumbled towards a pin-prick of light ahead in the tunnel, where jostling lanterns signalled the location of his fleeing peers. Four muffled gunshots followed Bob in that heart-stopping dash of self-preservation.

  In a far corner of the church, Marie’s gun clicked in her hands. A single tear flowed from one pretty, dark blue eye down her cheeky, dimpled face. Those coral lips wobbled once, in the split second before body and soul were torn asunder.

  16

  Flight to the River

  “The water’s getting deeper.” Dean Claridge’s voice greeted Robert Mason’s ears as the historian caught up with what remained of the survivors. Across Abigail’s shoulder, he could make out Michaela pushing one hand against the peaty, earthen wall. Its blackness threatened to overwhelm flickering illumination from the tiny lanterns held by Dean and the psychic. The teacher slowed her pace to an agonising limp. Muddy water reached close to waist level now. Out of sight beneath her in the chilly flood, she felt about with a questing foot. Stephen Colefax’s chalice balanced in her other hand, its mixed contents of phylactery parchment ash and well water close to the brim. If she slipped, lost her footing, or sank into a hole, that precious cargo might spill. They had to get it to the flowing waters of the river.

  Back down the tunnel, a fresh bout of insane, ungodly screams thrust into the confined chamber. Close walls funnelled the sound towards them with unnerving speed.

  Bob placed a hand on Abigail’s shoulder, causing her to jump. “They must have found the entrance. If we don’t pick up the pace, they’ll be on us in a minute or two.”

  “If I spill this, we’ll lose our main hope.” Michaela tried to hasten, but tumbled forward. Dean caught her in time to preserve the chalice contents from emptying. Constance threw her body back against the butcher. Like toppling dominoes, they fell into the teacher. Bob held fast against that collapsing force, his stance bracing to use Abigail as a shield and keep them all vertical. Michaela twisted. The wobbling chalice squashed firm against the psychic’s chest behind her. It held fast.

  Dean tugged at Constance. He slammed her back into the dirt wall. The cold steel of his meat cleaver pressed against her left cheek. “If you try that again or those things get much closer, you’ll be my last butchery job.” Rough hands span her about and pushed the traitor forward. “Now move.”

  Grimy dark water bubbled about them. With a sudden splash, grasping arms burst from beneath its surface, grabbing at their legs. A shower of peat sprayed out of the tunnel wall. One bony arm with slime-coated rotting flesh, hooked around Abigail’s neck. Her screams reverberated through the enclosed space. Their sonic force caused cascades of dirt to rain down beneath plant roots poking through the tunnel roof. The woman’s outcry mingled with pursuing maniacal rage in torrents of spitting hatred. A chorus of fury from the undead horde closed on them down the half-flooded tunnel.
Dean Claridge hacked at the arms emerging beneath them with his meat cleaver. There wasn’t room for a decent swing, so he chopped in sharp, rapid jerks to free their legs. Robert Mason tugged at the clinging appendage strangling Abigail. Its risen owner was strong and wouldn’t budge. Dean freed his legs from the insistent grasping with another series of vigorous chops. Connie took off down the passageway in a bid for freedom, hands still bound behind her back. The butcher squeezed beside his wife and sliced at the shoulder joint of the arm fixed tight to Abigail. The entire limb came away with a sickening snap. Bob tugged it free, his casual partner coughing and choking with hands reaching up to her own throat. Behind them, their screaming pursuers closed to less than thirty yards. Michaela fought down a rising shriek. Terror delivered power and precision to her quivering legs. She pounded against the resistance-heavy water, chalice held in both hands like a talisman. The time for caution was over. If she dropped it now, so what? They were seconds from certain slaughter. What good would the minister’s concoction do them if those beasts caught up?

  Onward the three companions splashed. Furious, chasing howls closed and then held back.

  Robert risked one furtive glance over his shoulder. In the dim, swinging candlelight of their lanterns, he caught a half dozen or more bellowing, pale faces with empty eyes. Their mouths stretched wide as if ready to swallow the entire world. Or was it just the souls of their intended victims? He shouted ahead as they continued to run, tremors of fear evident in his normally calm voice. “They’ve stopped.”

  Dean called back. “Thank God. But why?”

  Michaela watched the sloshing contents of the chalice with total concentration. The answer came from her lips with unconscious certainty, in between gasps fighting to catch her breath. “We must have passed the churchyard boundary. Do you remember what Reverend Colefax said?”

  The historian thought back to the vicar’s retelling of his dreams. After the parchment was burned and mixed with well water, that nightmare creature appeared unable to move beyond the lychgate. The term took on new meaning: a gate to hold back and contain a lich. Could the same be true for its minions? It appeared to be the case. Were any still outside the boundary when Colefax performed that ritual at the altar? If so, could the fleeing group be about to run headlong into further calamity? Bob took in a heavy lungful of breath. “I can feel more air ahead. Let’s hope the old boy was right about the rest of his story.”

  Dean stammered. “Connie must already be through. Keep an eye out; it seems she’ll do anything for love of that infernal beast.”

  Bob cursed under his breath. “Demented cow.”

  The tunnel narrowed to what appeared at first glance to be a dead end. The butcher lifted his lantern close to its extremity. A cold, clear breeze seeped in and caused the candle to sputter. “There're reeds and grass poking through a narrow crevice here. Looks like someone pushed them aside already.”

  Abigail grimaced. “Unless she can vanish into thin air, we know who that was. Be careful, Dean. That’s a tight fit. She might be waiting on the other side.”

  The butcher handed his lantern to Bob. Cleaver gripped firm in one hand, he pushed through the close gap. Mud smeared against his clothing. He slid out onto a bank like some spawn of the earth in labour. The Welland tributary slipped past, a few feet beyond. Its still-swollen waters appeared angry beneath a Halloween night sky. Dean checked for signs of the traitor in their immediate vicinity. Nothing obvious. He pressed his mouth against Gaia’s womb opening whence he had emerged, and whispered in a harsh tone. “We’re clear. Hand me the chalice.”

  Michaela’s pale arms crept through the muddy birth canal, clutching that holy cup like The Lady of the Lake holding forth Excalibur. The thin, waxing crescent of a Beaver Moon cast its faint glow on proceedings in ethereal highlights.

  Dean grabbed the chalice with his left hand, the right waving his cleaver in subtle swings of readiness for any intervention by the insane community founder. If she wanted to screw everything up, this would be the opportune moment.

  Michaela pushed through the hole, followed by Abigail and then Bob. Dean handed the cup back to his wife. The historian scrambled up the rise above the bank.

  “What can you see?” Abigail asked.

  Atop the crest, Bob’s view back to St. Guthlac’s on its rise above Deeping Drove was illuminated by a glimmering, amber glow. Searing sheets of fire poked through the roof of the nave. Circling clouds of billowing smoke poured from the broken stained glass windows. Inside, leaping flames flashed and danced as if the faithful were throwing a disco. All about the building perimeter, twisted bodies howled and writhed in some infernal reverie of diabolical glee. At the lychgate, the green-eyed resurrection of Nechtan the tribal holy man, peered across the landscape. Even at this distance, the searching lamps of its malevolent stare fell upon the soaked witness. A devastating howl and gnashing of teeth, tumbled from its dislocated jaw. Before it, down the incline, what remained of the barn, hovels and smithy pulsed with the occasional release of rising sparks.

  Abigail joined him on the rise, her need for a response outstripping what little patience remained within. She called down to the husband and wife standing at the water’s edge. “The church is on fire, but those things appear corralled within the lychgate boundary.”

  Bob continued. “They must have dumped petrol on the pews and set a blaze going. I can’t see any of them at the settlement.”

  Dean scratched his head. “Any sign of Connie?”

  “No.” Bob retraced his steps to the river with Abigail in tow. “I wondered if she’d have run to be with Nechtan, but I can’t see her. Kyla nailed it back at the church, I reckon. Connie’s obsessed with and scared of that thing in equal measure.”

  The butcher shook his head. “That woman is more than a little disturbed.”

  “She could also still be around,” Abigail added. “Come on, let’s finish this. Do it, Kyla. Complete the minister’s ritual and see what happens.”

  Bob wanted to say ‘if anything,’ but kept any semblance of sarcasm tucked away inside. Everything else had proved correct, why not this last stage of the old vicar’s dreams? If anyone felt an urge towards mockery, they need only climb that slope and witness the lich and its Legion of the Damned, to be forever shamed into silence.

  Michaela Claridge perched with her feet on the edge of the churning waters. She lifted the chalice high between both hands, like a priest offering wine as the blood of Christ before communion. From the squat, square church tower, a severed rope caused bells to swing. They chimed in the manner of an obedient altar boy’s service in response to her elevating gesture. Their dull tone carried across the fens as the teacher inverted her cup. The ash and water concoction splashed into the torrent. A unified cry of agony rose from the churchyard and was silenced in an instant. Bob scrambled back up the rise. St. Guthlac’s still burned, but the churchyard lay empty. No terrifying vision of evil lurked at the lychgate. No army AWOL from hell, lingered amongst the tumbledown tombstones. Deeping Drove was a scene of conflagration and devastation, but there was nothing visible of supernatural origin to startle the twenty-first-century onlooker.

  “Well?” Dean Claridge broke the historian’s quiet surveillance.

  “They’re gone,” Bob replied.

  “What, all of them?” Abigail asked.

  “Even Nechtan. The whole site looks like a war zone, but I can’t see any trace of those creatures. It’s like they’ve turned to dust.”

  “Even our…” Michaela couldn’t complete the sentence. Her heart ached with images of all the rich life experiences their beautiful daughter would never enjoy. Had this final act of deliverance from heaven, left them without so much as a body to bury in hallowed earth and mourn over?

  Bob caught the anguished tone of her voice. “There’s only one way to be certain. What do you say we find some shelter until morning, then conduct a survey at first light? If we’re lucky, the fire at the church may have burned itself out by the
n. Though, I doubt it’ll be safe to go inside. Especially if more of the roof has yet to collapse. The place will remain a furnace of radiating heat, even in the cool of day.”

  Dean nodded. “Agreed. I wonder if any of our car keys survived those hut infernos? We could kip inside the vehicles. What about the old caravans? Can you see them from there, Bob?”

  The historian squinted through the darkness. “Looks like they were torched, too. The creatures left the cars alone. At least, I can’t see any burnt out wrecks in this light. Guess they figured we wouldn't drive off anywhere with the floodwaters up.”

  Abigail grunted. “Yeah. They were more intent on shepherding us into a controllable corner, before the final hammer blow fell.”

  Michaela flung her arms around her husband’s shoulders and sobbed into his chest. The butcher chucked his meat cleaver down. It spun and stuck upright in the damp earth and long grass by the river. “Easy, love. It’s all over now. The nightmare’s passed us by.”

  “Sarah,” the woman’s muffled, heartsick utterance vibrated through the butcher’s breastbone.

  “I know.” He nuzzled her head.

  From somewhere amongst the reeds to their right, a low, guttural growl like a maddening dog broke the stillness.

  Constance Creek darted from the undergrowth, arms outstretched where she’d snapped the securing twine with some manic, newfound strength. Her hair clumped in a tangled mess; eyes bulging like two snooker cue balls, their pupils fixed on the butcher and his wife. Top and bottom lips fluttered between puffs of air, delivered in the manner of a bull preparing to charge. She lunged at Dean and Michaela with a scream. The deranged harridan fell upon the couple, knocking the teacher into the river and tumbling into the wet grass in a knot with her husband.