I slowly got to my feet, alarmed at my reaction and at the unknown sound. My fingers wrapped around the post, pulling me up, keeping me from sinking back to the bench, for my knees threatened to buckle. I stared again into that shrouding blackness near the corner of the church, trying to discern a movement or an explanation for the deep breathing. All I could see was the jet-black bulk of the building, the sheet of rain and the faint impressions of gray tombstones.
Taking a deep breath, I relinquished my vise-like grip on the post and stepped onto the road. The coldness of the night air and my wet clothes made my movement sluggish. The road circled to the left and downhill to the southern end of the pond. I suppose I followed the route—I wasn’t aware of much but the gust of wind through the trees and the vision of Adam speeding along the A625 to his home. Or to a pub.
I tried phoning him again, my fear growing to near panic. The ring went unanswered and I flipped my mobile closed, feeling—rather than seeing—my way along the road, for I was again sobbing.
It seemed safer in the middle of the road. I could see my surroundings; there was space between them and anyone following me. I considered stopping at the Harper or Bowcock houses, but what would I tell them—that I was starting at shadows?
Another grumble of thunder rolled overhead. Above, the black bulk of treetops, like some angry thunderhead, bent in the storm. Mark’s words about my possible stalker came back to me as a bough cracked from a tree and crashed to earth. Another noise, less sharp but closer, jolted me into running.
Trying to recall the sequence later, I’m still not certain where it happened. But it was somewhere between Perry Bowcock’s place and the pond. That nearly deserted fragment of forest that surrounded the youth hostel and eased up to the homes of Kevin and Edmund. I could not have mistaken it, as I might have imagined the thumps and raspy breathing in the churchyard. I was on the road, in the open, running toward the pond and the village and people. But I know something was following me, and it ran at me with the long, undulating determination of a hound.
That I couldn’t see it increased my terror. Mark’s lecture about my hypothetical stalker paled as the legends of the shuck, the black dog forecasting dire events, burst from the recesses of my mind. Sobbing that something had happened to Adam, I ran down the hill. I slid on a patch of slick tarmac but immediately got to my feet, frantic that I would see the hound. That would bring on new terrors.
As I rounded the corner, coming into the row of shops, the grandfather yew emerged from the inky backdrop of night. A blink of lightning threw its shadow across the ground. The pond, its water ruffled and murky, lay dark at the tree’s base. It was there that Mark found me sometime later.
THIRTY-SIX
Books from the Library: Derbyshire’s Tales of Ghostly Goings-on and Haunted Homes
Few men in the land of the High Peak could match Innis Vance for strength. He had broken a man’s nose, another man’s wrist, two men’s legs, and one man’s neck. And those were during games. What he did to his enemies kept the gravediggers turning over sod.
His boast that he could lift a boulder, no matter its size, and heave it into the River Noe was challenged periodically, but the challenger never won. Consequently, Innis became head of a group of misfits and bullies who lived in caves and huts in the wild area around Kinder Scout.
The band lived rough and outside the law, laughing at any attempt by the residents of the scattered, small hamlets in the district to protect their property and bring Innis Vance to justice.
Efforts continued sporadically despite the difficulty in finding the outlaw group and in capturing Innis. The lawful citizens bent on apprehending Innis and ending his reign of terror had difficulty keeping him in custody, for shackles and chains seemed to break magically. If there was no Innis to try, there would be no peace in the region.
So vain and egotistical did Innis become that he soon believed he could take anything he wanted. After all, his strength was greater than anyone’s—who would stop him?
One day, Innis saw Fiona, a lovely shepherdess who tended her father’s flock of sheep. Desire welled within Innis like a hawk shooting toward the heavens. That night, around the band’s campfire, Innis told of his lust for the young girl. Though Innis was the undisputed leader of the ragtag band, several of the men spoke out, warning Innis that if he pursued the girl against her will, he would come to know the great shuck. For, as one of the group said, the black dog protected those whom it loved and hunted those it didn’t—with disastrous results.
The man’s warning had no effect. No one had been born who could successfully stand in Innis’s way when he wanted something.
A week later, Innis lay in waiting at a small moorland pool where Fiona frequently came with her sheep. Dusk had fallen and the air held the scent of rain. As he waited, he failed to notice the sky growing dark or the drops of rain that began falling, so intent was he on watching Fiona walking toward him.
He also did not hear the baying of a large hound.
When she had stopped by the pool, Innis burst from his hiding place in the heather, grabbed her and forced her to the ground. As a roll of thunder covered her screams the howls of the dog grew louder.
Innis turned, his heart beating faster, knowing fear for the first time in years. The yapping grew louder, as though the dog were yards from Innis. He stood up, determined to chase off the animal, and grabbed a stone that lay beside the water’s edge.
In one ear-deafening blast of rage, the hound rushed at Innis, visible at last. Innis screamed as he now saw the creature that before he had only heard. The dog leapt at the man, clamping its yellow fangs around Innis’ throat and throwing him into the water of the deep pool. As the bodies thrashed, Fiona stood up, gathered her crook, and walked away. The hound vanished, leaving a boulder where Innis had fallen.
The pond dried up long ago, but the depression remains to this day. To this day, the giant black dog still warns villagers of certain peak villages of disasters and threats. To this day, too, you can see the petrified form of Innis Vance, known locally as part of the Wet Withens stone circle on Eyam Moor.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I came to in Margo’s lap. Mark was talking to someone, his mobile to his ear as he paced in front of us. As he closed his phone, I struggled to a sitting position, Margo’s sharp commands for me to lie still ignored.
The rain had stopped, leaving a clean, fresh scent to the air. The sky over the western mountain rim was clearing, the clouds drifting off and revealing the crescent moon. A jacket or bathrobe had been draped over me and slipped from me when I sat up. Margo scooped it from the ground and hung it around my shoulders. Mark, I couldn’t help but notice, stood sopping wet before me.
The cliché question slipped from my mouth before I was aware I had even spoken. “Where am I?” I shifted my gaze from Mark to Margo as she patted my shoulder.
“By the pond. Mark found you not ten minutes ago. He phoned me and I rushed down here.” She pulled the jacket up higher on my shoulders. “We don’t know, of course, but we think you’ve been here for several minutes. Mark’s been out looking for you.”
I stared at his tall form, trying to see his face, but the night obscured his expression.
“I don’t know how I missed you,” he said, his voice low but tinged with relief. “I guess I went the other way ’round the village.”
“I went up the hill by Clayton’s house,” I said.
“Must’ve passed you in the dark.”
“I zigged when you zagged, then.” I tried to make light of the situation, feeling a total fool.
“Can you stand up?” Margo asked.
Nodding, I bent my knees, got my feet beneath me, and struggled to a standing position with Margo’s and Mark’s help.
“Anything hurt?”
“Besides my pride?”
“No headache, fractured wrist bone, bruised knee cap? Soreness from where you fell? Are you chilly?” She sounded like a nurse going down a checklist i
n an infirmary.
I shook off their hands and handed Margo’s jacket back to her. “I’m fine. Honest.”
“Yeah, you sound fine. Your teeth are chattering.”
“I’ve been rained on, Margo. My clothes are wet.”
“Back to my room, then. A hot shower, a cuppa, and a good night’s sleep.” She turned toward Mark. I could imagine her glaring at him, daring him to challenge her directive.
“Fine,” I said, too exhausted to complain. “Wherever. Nothing much matters anymore.” We walked to the pub, their hands still supporting me and guiding me around the puddles on the pavement. Mark picked leaves or twigs from my hair and Margo chattered like a cooperative witness, telling me that Graham had called for an early meeting tomorrow.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, not much caring about the case. Adam was my immediate priority, but I had no idea how I would ever heal the wound. I also had no idea if I had dreamt the black dog’s pursuit or if it had been real. I would not ask Mark to search for paw prints in the muddy ground—he would certify me as mad and cart me off to the asylum.
It couldn’t have been too dreadfully late, for the publican called for last drinks as we came into the pub. Happily, no one seemed to notice my unkempt state. I got to Margo’s room and showered, sank into an upholstered chair and fortified myself with a hot cup of tea before Mark returned.
“Do you think that bloke hit you with something, Bren?” He had taken the other chair in the room. He balanced a cup of coffee on his thigh but seemed more focused on me at the moment. “If so, we need to get you checked out at a hospital. You might have a concussion.”
“Don’t be absurd. I fainted. Nothing more. I didn’t hear anyone or notice anyone. It’s a combination of the weather and my, uh…”
“I still think we need to be certain you’re fine.”
“I am. I just need a little time to heal.” I stared into my cup, feeling the tears building inside me. I mumbled, “Like another four decades.”
“You need to sleep,” Margo said, taking the cup from me. “If you give me your room key, I’ll go get your night things.” She held out her hand like a booking officer demanding a prisoner’s personal items on entering jail.
“I guess the key’s in Mark’s room.”
“Then I need your key, Mark, to get Brenna’s.”
“Really, Margo,” I said. “This isn’t necessary. I can sleep in your robe. Nothing’s going to bother me.”
“Mind if I don’t believe you? You’re about to cry. The key, Mark.”
Mark took the key from his pocket and slapped it into Margo’s open palm.
“I’ll be right back.” She was out of the room before I could squeak another protest.
“That’s that,” Mark said. “How are you feeling…really?”
“Physically?”
“No. Emotionally.”
“Do you really have to be told? ‘Hell’ is too soft a word.”
“It wasn’t a nice scene in my room.”
Tears collected in my eyes. They quivered, about to spill down my cheeks. “I love Adam, Mark. This is all so absurdly idiotic. He can’t believe I—” I swallowed, unable to say the word. “—that I’d be untrue to him. It’s this silly wedding. It’s got his parents, him and me all in a tizzy. All our emotions are shot to hell.”
“Can I do anything?”
I sniffed, blotting my nose on the back of my hand. “But I don’t know what. It’s something I’ve got to straighten out with Adam.”
The room door creaked open. Mark said, “In that case, start straightening.”
Adam walked into the room. He glanced at Mark, then at me, but his gaze this time spoke of concern and love. “Bren? Are you all right?”
Mark stood up as Margo entered with my overnight bag. He took the bag, set it on the floor, and steered Margo to the door. “Let’s get a cuppa, if the publican will let us.” Calling to me, Mark said, “Apologize quickly. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” I hardly heard the door close as Adam gathered me into his arms.
“Adam.” I lowered my head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. But it really wasn’t what you thought.“
He kissed me before he replied. “He told me.”
“Mark told—”
“Minutes ago. He rang me on my mobile. I wasn’t going to answer it when I saw that he was calling, but thank God I did.” He kissed me again and hugged me to his chest. “Everything’s explained. Everything, Bren. The two burglaries, the theory that you are being watched and followed, the, uh…overnight situation in Margo’s room.”
“Adam.”
“I’m so sorry, Bren. I can’t tell you how sorry. It’s just this…this damned notion my parents have about the ceremony.”
“I’ve got a solution. Well, I hope it will be a solution. A resolution we all will find acceptable.”
“Salt explained that, too. My ceremony, the compromise with the reception, your honeymoon.” His lips were against my hair and he whispered, “But I’m going along on your honeymoon. If you still want me.”
I pushed myself away from his chest, staring at him. Humor and excitement shone in his eyes. “Does the sun rise in the east?”
“Actually, the sun is stationary. The rotation of the earth—”
The rest was lost in a kiss and us parting hastily when Margo came back. “She may not have told you, Adam, but we’ve got an early beginning to the day tomorrow. We need our beauty rest.”
“Sweet dreams, then,” he said as Margo shooed him from the room. “Ready to go to bed?” she asked me. She stood by the window, looking into the night.
“What’s it doing? Raining again?”
Leaning her head against the windowpane, she cupped her hands around her eyes. “No. It’s stopped.” She turned to me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Typical. You get wet through and the minute you’re inside, it stops raining.”
“Do something for me, Margo?”
I must have looked pathetic or else I caught her in an unguarded moment, for she said, “Sure. What? More tea?” She started toward the electric kettle.
“No. Go outside and look for something.”
“What? Lose something? Your mobile? It’s probably in the grass by the pond, where you fell.” Grabbing her torch from her kit, she said, “I’ll get it. Unless it’s in the pond. Even I’m not going to fish around with my hand in that stuff. Yuck.”
“Not my mobile.“ I felt extremely foolish asking her to do this, but I had to know or I’d never sleep.
“God, not your engagement ring!”
I turned my hand so she could see its back. Wriggling my fingers, I said, “No. Still wearing it, luckily.”
“Then what?”
“Dog prints.”
“What? You’re joking.”
I shook my head. “Big dog prints. Like, maybe, a boxer or lab or Alsatian. Something on that order. In the mud or the wet gravel. They’d be clear enough to see in this wet soil. You won’t have to get down on your hands and knees and hunt. Do you mind?” I screwed up my mouth, hardly daring she would agree.
As I said, I must have looked pitiful, for she nodded. “If it helps you sleep, fine. Where do I look?”
She didn’t ask why I wanted her to look. She probably put it down to delirium from my ordeal. “Between the youth hostel and the pond.”
“The youth hostel…the old school?”
“Yeah. Just along the grassy verge. The inner side of the road. You don’t need to go any farther inland than a yard or so. The grass is heavy there and won’t hold any prints. I-I know it’s probably an impossible task, but—”
“Stay here. I’ll be back before you know it.”
She was right. I’d fallen asleep before she returned.
* * * *
“I should be miffed at you for falling asleep,” Margo said as we talked over breakfast in the pub Tuesday morning. “But you needed your rest more than you needed to hear about the dog prints.” She took an infuriatingly slow sip
of coffee before she recounted her adventure.
“I scouted the inner edge of the road from the pond past the old school on my way up the hill. By the way, did you know it’s got a cornerstone that has a carving of—”
“Margo! Please just tell me about the paw prints.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I played the torch beam all over the ground, Bren. Right by the tarmac and about a yard inland, just like you said. The ground was quite soft by the roadside—if not bare mud, then gravel and mud. But that would still retain an impression. I know ’cause I pressed my thumb into a gravely area to make sure. It held.” She looked at me, probably wanting either a slap on the back or to get encouragement.
I nodded. “So? See anything?” I didn’t know why I expected physical evidence of the black dog. Ghosts don’t leave signs of their passage, do they?
“I’m getting to that, Bren. Don’t rush me.”
I exhaled. Was she so precise on writing out police reports, too?
“I couldn’t see anything. I went downhill, just to make sure. Not a thing. Then I climbed the hill again, but this time on the outer edge.”
“The side the school and those few houses sit on.”
“Yes. I worked my way uphill very slowly because I didn’t want to let you down. Plus, I’d feel a right Burton if I discovered it later and had overlooked it. Anyway, I found a few paw prints farther up the hill than you suggested.”
My fingers nearly strangled my coffee mug. “Where? What size?”
“More or less on the north side of the school. Kind of facing the church.”
“How big were they?”
“I’m not a dog expert.“
“You surely know a Chihuahua from a St. Bernard, Margo.”
“Don’t be insulting. Do you want to hear this or not?”
I apologized and swallowed my agitation.
“Like I was saying…I saw some paw prints. They were very large. Maybe a few inches across. Fresh, too, or else the rain would have softened the edges or obliterated them. I would’ve taken a photo of them, but I left my camera at home.”
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