by Nick Brown
That evening was the children’s Christmas service followed by a party in the church hall, and the crib was the centrepiece. The idea he’d had the previous year of putting presents round the crib rather than a Christmas tree, linking the material and spiritual gifts, had worked well, he’d thought. Now the crib was smashed and the figures of Jesus and the Virgin were missing. Mary was away in Wales visiting her mother so wouldn’t be available to cobble together a substitute.
He was wondering what to do when his mobile bleeped. Olga.
“Hi, Ed, can you talk?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“I’m at the flat with Lisa. She seems alright but she’s so quiet, like she’s been drugged. I think we got her out just in time. Jan’s going to stay with her till Christmas Eve when she’s going back to Glasgow, then I’ll take over once I’ve talked to Margaret. I won’t be able to stay in the house after that conversation.”
It all came out in a breathless gabble and she hadn’t finished.
“Can you come over, Ed? I’m on my own with her until six when Jan gets back from work.”
His mind switched from one anxiety to another.
“I’ve a bit of a crisis in church at present…”
“Ed, we have to talk. You’ve read all that crap about the demonic attacks being solved, and now Claire is moving into the house over Christmas. Think about that, Ed, our house which a few hundred years ago was the barn Dee performed his procedures in, the ones in the document. The barn that my ancestor Hikman, the man who terrified Dee, owned. That’s when I think all this was set running.”
She was babbling now, distressed; he had no moral choice.
“Ok, I’ll be there, give me a couple of hours.”
He shut off the phone thinking of, among many other things, what Claire moving into the house over Christmas meant for Giles. He’d invited Giles to lunch on Christmas Day because he felt sorry for him. Giles had asked if he could bring a Greek friend. He hadn’t sounded right, had babbled some stuff this Greek had told him about demons or such like. This was still on his mind when he arrived at Olga’s flat.
The flat was in a suburb of Stockport described by estate agents as up-and-coming and convenient for commuting into Manchester. The second characteristic was undeniable, it was on a busy T junction opposite a rail station. Lisa didn’t seem to mind; in fact, she seemed better than she had for years and made tea for them before disappearing into her new bedroom.
Ed and Olga sat on opposite sides of the small table in the cramped kitchen.
“Ed, I think you need to call everyone who has experience of what’s going on in Skendleby together.”
“That’s hardly going to be possible this side of Christmas, and for what reason?”
“Because the focus for everything has changed. I’ve begun to think that we were all brought to that house for a purpose, and I think the time for that purpose is upon us.”
“Oh, come on, you…”
“Just listen to me, Ed. There’s something growing in that house, something that shouldn’t be. I don’t know what it is but I can feel it, so can Jan, that’s why she’s leaving. A couple of days ago Rose and Leonie dug something up in the cellar. Leonie started to tell Jan about it then clammed up. Jan says she was too frightened to say more.”
Ed had a horrible idea of where all this was going, what the crows had whispered to him was happening. He took a sip of his tea, it was too hot and burnt his lips. Olga didn’t notice or even pause.
“We got Lisa out just in time; she’s pregnant. I know it sounds mad but all this drive for a baby in the community only started when Claire began to meddle with Margaret’s mind. Whatever’s going on, Lisa’s pregnancy is at the heart of it. It’s the only card we hold.”
Ed didn’t know what to say; there was a silence into which Olga dropped:
“All I know is that evil is consuming a community built on love and trust.”
Ed thought for a moment she was going to cry, but she didn’t; she was too strong for that. He knew in his heart she was right, except about Claire. Claire was behaving strangely and no wonder after what she’d gone through, perhaps entering the community for a while was what she needed. He knew he couldn’t tell Olga this; she believed Claire had stolen her lover. He was wondering what to say when Olga cut to the chase.
“We need to pool what we know about Skendleby.”
Ed made a decision.
“Ok, you and Lisa come over on Christmas day and I’ll invite Gwen”
Chapter 40: Total Eclipse of the Heart
Gwen put down the fountain pen and refilled her glass from the bottle of single malt whisky. It had been intended as a Christmas gift for Marcus but she reckoned that wherever he’d got to he wouldn’t be needing it. She’d sat at the kitchen table drinking since she’d finished writing, and over half the bottle was gone. Something was coming for her and she knew there wasn’t much time left, so the letters needed to be dispatched with speed.
The letters had taken so long to write: one to Ed and one to Giles. She’d spared Davenport an epistle on account of his health. She was weary down to her bones and wanted the letters out and posted. What would come next she didn’t know. It must be getting late, she looked up at the old grandfather clock cramped in the corner of her little kitchen; thirty seven minutes off midnight. She rubbed her eyes then picked one of the letters up to check over one last time.
St Anselm’s Yard
Shrewsbury
20-12 2016
Dear Ed,
I’m sorry to have to burden you with this but I’m afraid there’s no alternative. I have a premonition that my part in this business and in life’s game is about to end, so it’s down to you and Giles. You need to be very careful and afraid.
Afraid of Claire. You can’t imagine how hard it was for me to write those words. I love and cherish her, she grew to be such a beautiful, warm-spirited young woman, but what we asked of her was too much.
Marcus was in touch with me before he was killed. He’d suspected for some time that our ceremony and exorcism last year hadn’t worked. What he had only just discovered was that it worked all too well. Except it achieved precisely what we had hoped to avoid. The demon, or whatever type of evil it is that the Skendleby excavation unleashed, was far too strong for Claire. However, in her we presented it with its perfect host. We relied on her courage and goodness but we destroyed that poor girl when we pushed her into meddling with forces we could never understand.
Marcus discovered more but was killed before he could divulge it. The poor, poor man, what a tragic life. You are in great danger because Claire is searching for something and when she finds it her work here is done. After that neither you nor Giles will survive. Your only chance is to find whatever it is before she does and learn how to use it.
Sorry, but that’s all I can offer. I think for me the end will come as a relief. At least in writing you this letter I’ve done my bit.
I hope your god will protect you,
Gwen
She stubbed out the glowing end of her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and, moved by a premonition, decided to deposit the letters safely in a post box. She took down her old donkey jacket from a hook on the wall and was in the process of putting it on when there was a sound from the hall.
Looking out from the kitchen she saw the front door closing and a figure standing by the foot of the stairs.
“Bit late to be going out, Gwen, a few seconds later and I’d have missed you. Lucky I still had my set of keys, isn’t it?”
Gwen’s glance swept anxiously back towards the letters on the table and Claire’s eyes followed it.
“Oh, been writing letters I see. Nice to see old traditions being maintained. Anything interesting?”
For all the heart stopping panic Gwen was able to regret the passing of the Claire she’d loved and feelings of regret and loss exceeded her terror. The Claire thing giggled.
“Oh bless, how sweet, you still
want to mother me, don’t you? Well, it’s too late for that now old lady, now that you’ve started to meddle. You should have taken what I did to your friend Marcus as a warning.”
Gwen couldn’t speak, her legs gave way and she sank back down onto the kitchen chair.
“Well, let’s take a look at what you’ve been writing so busily.”
Claire picked up the letters from the table.
“To little Ed and Giles; how sweet.”
Gwen watched in horror as Claire opened the hot metal door of the old anthracite burning stove with her bare hand, showing no sign of pain, and threw the letters into the flames.
“Sorry to have to extinguish your last gasp of hope like that Gwen, but that’s life, isn’t it? Not that you’ve got a great deal of life left.”
Gwen opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t. Instead, without intending to, she found herself getting to her feet.
“That’s right, Gwen, now go and fetch that heavy binding twine from the drawer where you keep it.”
Gwen did so.
“Remember telling me that the hook that holds the drying rack up is strong enough to take the weight of an ox? Well, let’s test it with a smaller weight, shall we? Go on, tie one end tight to the hook.”
Gwen did as she was told.
“Good girl, you see, it’s not so hard. Now about a foot down from the hook, make a noose.”
As Gwen’s shaky hands were struggling with the twine, Claire picked up the half empty whisky bottle and finished it in one gulp.
“When they find you they’ll see the empty bottle and the note I’m going to leave and conclude that in a fit of drunken sorrow you took your own life. A bit unfair that for someone as brave as you, I know, but this is what you get when you meddle.”
The grandfather clock struck the chimes of midnight. The Claire thing giggled.
“Dawn of the winter solstice, the anniversary of your pathetic attempt to get in our way. How appropriate. Now stand on that chair, slip the noose round your neck and tighten it.”
Then, for a moment, the Claire thing seemed to go out of focus, or that’s how it seemed to Gwen. It gave a little whimper and reached out as if to lift her down from the chair. She could see Claire’s eyes, not the demon’s, looking out at her. It looked to be struggling to speak, tried once but couldn’t, it was crying, the eyes stared at her, imploring, loving.
But it didn’t last; the voice again, but this time harsher.
“Now kick the chair away.”
Gwen took the love that the eyes had briefly offered, stored it in her heart with an unlooked for burst of hope and did as she was told. She heard the chair crash to the floor beneath her and concentrated during the brief struggle on the last glimpse of the real Claire she’d been gifted.
Envoi Christmas Day
The morning was bright with a crisp sparkle of frost. Si Carver, his head still banging from the previous night’s party, noticed the letter on the mat by the front door. He hated Christmas Day, had since he was a kid, it never brought anything but disappointment. So he was pleased to see there’d been a delivery that broke Christmas down a bit for him, reduced its significance somehow. And the bloody church bells had finally stopped banging on so maybe things were looking up.
He was waiting for his driver to pick him up and take him into town to one of his clubs, where he’d have lunch and a bit of private entertainment, after which he’d sleep it off for a couple of days. In the New Year the development would start, he’d make a packet. Then he could wave goodbye to this poxy place and move on; maybe Dubai, classy there: yachts and golf.
Oddly, the thought of the development made him remember something he was beginning to dread. He looked round for that slut Suzzie-Jade to tell her he was off, and that she’d be left in the house alone. He looked forward to seeing the expression on her face. Then he remembered what her face had looked like when he’d last seen her and was relieved she wasn’t here.
In fact, he couldn’t quite remember when he’d last seen her; didn’t recall seeing her at the party. Perhaps the thing that lurked by the estate wall and frightened him, made him feel like a scared kid, had got her. That’d be a stroke of luck. Thinking of it made him uneasy, he opened the door. Where was the driver?
To kill time he looked down at the letter; no stamp, no postmark. Someone had delivered it by hand. Maybe it was from Suzzie-Jade. Maybe he’d done a better job of frightening her than he’d thought. The letter could be her goodbye note, that’d be convenient, save him from having to pay her off.
But it wasn’t from Suzzie-Jade. It took him some time to remember the writer at all. A short letter, just a few lines, in red ink.
Dec 25th
Dear Mr Carver,
I know how much the ‘Devil’s Mound’ and the things that come out of it frighten you.
I can help you be rid of it. Perhaps we should meet; don’t worry, I’ll make the arrangements.
Yours sincerely,
Claire Vanarvi
*******
Midday, and Ed walked into the rectory from church having preached the family Christmas service. It was well attended and his remarks well received. The only slightly unsettling note was that the crib had reconfigured itself with a full cast. The Virgin Mary and the baby were back; perhaps it had just been a practical joke.
He hadn’t time to dwell on it, he was returning to participate in a strange Christmas lunch. Giles had accepted the invitation but had asked that if along with Theodrakis he could bring someone else otherwise condemned to spending Christmas Day in solitude. In the event the day grew stranger than he’d anticipated as the guest list grew in a most unexpected manner.
To his surprise, the extra guest Giles brought turned out to be the chief investigating officer of the Skendleby murders, who he recognised from TV and newspapers. The woman who had given Giles such a hard time but who now seemed on very good terms with him. But this seemed quite appropriate, part of a new alliance against the forces of darkness.
Lucky that Mary was so easy going. In fact, he was the last to arrive for the feast and there was a cheerful buzz emanating from the large drawing room where a log fire was blazing.
He was surrounded by people who were on his side and feared the things he did. For a moment he let the feeling of relief wash over him and he noticed that even Lisa was smiling. Mary was the perfect hostess for gatherings of this nature.
“Here, Ed, have a glass of this, it’s Moet, Colonel Theodrakis brought three bottles with him.”
She nodded towards the immaculately turned-out, diminutive Greek, who raised his own glass in a toast to Ed.
“Thank you for bringing me into your home on Christmas Day, Reverend Joyce.”
Everyone crowded round him shaking hands or kissing his cheek; Mary took this as a signal to head for the kitchen but was stopped by Theodrakis.
“I’m sorry to impose on your hospitality, Mrs Joyce, but I fear it might be necessary to set one last place.”
His timing was perfect; at the end of the sentence there came a chime of the doorbell. Mary opened the door.
“Mrs Carver! How nice to see you. Merry Christmas!”
Mary returned to the room followed by Suzzie-Jade who was wearing a neat and almost demure black dress, her hair tied in a plait. She handed a carrier bag to Mary.
“My contribution to the feast, a couple of bottles of Si’s best cognac, he won’t miss them.”
She turned her smile through 180 degrees to include everyone in the room, then walked over to Theodrakis, who she kissed with surprising intimacy.
After a long traditional Christmas lunch the company gathered round the fire intending to talk and drink Carver’s cognac while Mary and her mother slipped away. Mary to make up beds in the numerous unused bedrooms for the unexpected guests, and her mother to watch the TV.
Remembering what the crows had told him, Ed made them stand in a circle and hold hands. Looking round at each face in turn, he began a short prayer, wondering wh
at power such a strange assortment could possibly muster. Then, as the dark began to gather, they toasted the absent Davenport and settled to an attempt to unravel the current state of the Skendleby haunting, each wondering where they would be the following Christmas. Outside in the night, snow settled thickly on the churchyard.
*******
As the old sun sank blood red behind the woods and fingers of shadow crept towards the house, the women, minus Jan and Olga, were settled in the Gathering Room prior to the evening’s celebration of midwinter. They’d exchanged gifts and blessings and the champagne was open. It had been a far harder year than they’d anticipated, but an air of optimism filled the room. Margaret, the leader and heart of the house, was responsible for this. She had foretold an encouraging portent. This in itself was encouraging as Margaret had experienced the most difficult year of all of them. A rustle of expectancy filled the room as they saw the door begin to open.
Claire, in a long white dress hinting of an earlier age swept in. She was radiant, almost glowing, and her eyes sparkled with intense light. But it was her right hand that attracted their attention. It held an object that was like a cross between a thermometer and a toothbrush. She held it aloft, calling out to them.
“Rejoice sisters, there will be a birth; the birth foretold. This is our midwinter nativity, now we can begin the great changes that will sweep the old orders away, wherever we find them. You are blessed, you are chosen to serve. Come rejoice.”
The women shuffled towards her to congratulate, share and touch. Across the fields towards Skendleby, anyone abroad on that cold night would a have seen the night sky above Devil’s Mound begin to glow.
20-05-15
To be concluded in “Green Man Resurrection”
Marcus Brown