“Good lord. What had happened?”
“The boxes were missing. I don’t know why, but when I saw the mess of that chest I had an uneasy feeling and I decided to pay George a visit. When I got to his house, your house now. I found him lying in the garden. Close to that monolith. It looked as though he had been attacked. The poor chap had been beaten to death. Local policeman suspected a robbery. But as he lived alone there was no way of knowing if anything had been taken.” The reverend Mortimer began to feel a little guilty at painting such a bleak picture about the demise of the previous resident of Alistair’s new home. Alistair assured him that he was fine with the details and that he wasn’t superstitious. He had no qualms about living in a house that had such a gloomy history.
Alistair and the reverend Mortimer talked some more before Alistair said that it was high time he was heading back home. It was almost midday and he was eager to try out the new hacksaw blade on the padlocked gate before sundown. He had mentioned to Mortimer the unfortunate business of his power outage and telephone problem. The Reverend kindly said that he would make a call on Alistair’s behalf to the electrical board to save him a walk back into town.
4
Alistair had been busy since returning to Olde Tudor. First, he had unpacked the provisions he had acquired from his morning in the town. Next, he had lit a fire to warm the house. Smokey had curled up to sleep in front of it after greedily lapping up a saucer of milk and chewing on the head of a kipper. Happy that the fire was adequately stocked with fuel enough to last an hour at least, he lit some candles to illuminate the house. He then took the hacksaw and went outside to continue working on the cavern gate.
His arm was aching as he rhythmically sliced through the padlock. He stopped to wipe sweat from his brow with a pocket handkerchief then realised that he was not perspiring due to the exercise. He had a temperature. In fact, he was beginning to feel quite shabby as his fever was getting the better of him. Nevertheless, he aimed to finish the task before him.
A loud CLACK signified that he had managed to finally sever the shackle. He twisted the body of the padlock and unhooked the remains of the shackle from the gate. With his free hand, he pushed the gate. A loud squeal issued from its oxidised hinges as it swung inwards towards the dark interior of the cave.
Back at the house Alistair tried to light the hurricane lamp. The previous time he had used the lamp he had managed to wind the wick too low whilst extinguishing the flame. He would have to take the lamp to pieces in order to reattach the wick onto the toothed cog. This operation would take time. The light outside was already beginning to falter. He decided to fit some of the candles he had bought from the hardware shop into an elaborate steel candelabra that had been left at the house. Taking the candelabra, and the matches he made his way back to the cave.
He had only covered the first few yards of the cave when he began to see the paintings. Holding the lighted candelabra up against the cave wall he studied the pictures. They were exactly as described in Redgrave’s notebook. The colours were so vibrant and fresh. He could hardly believe that they were in fact over seventeen thousand years old. A wind eased itself along the passage where Alistair stood bathed in the incandescent glow from the candles. The wind’s playful fingers tampered with the candles. Fearing that they would be extinguished he lowered them protectively before moving on.
A little further along, the stone passage opened out into a moderately sized chamber, about as large as a two-storey house. He gazed upwards. The ceiling of the chamber was adorned with calcium carbonate formations produced through slow precipitation. Stalactites, stalagmites, and an array of soda straws were a delight to his exploring eyes. The flickering candlelight created surreal long shadows on the rocky floor. The walls gave off a weak phosphorescence as Alistair passed by with the candelabra.
The candlelight picked out more wall paintings towards the back of the chamber. As he moved across, carefully trying to avoid tripping on the stalagmites that covered the floor, he then noticed the piles of rocks. There were three piles in total. He examined the rock piles. Each pile appeared to be constructed from four large flat rocks laid together in a slanted position that formed a triangular structure. Smaller loose stones and rocks had then been piled on top and around both ends. He then saw the remains of three cardboard boxes. They had been ripped open. Curious as to what might be underneath the rocks, he began to remove some stones at one end of one of the rock piles.
Crouching low, he removed a candle from the candelabra and held it inside the gap he had created. He jumped with fright as the light picked out a sepulchral bony face, its dark eye sockets animated by the candlelight. For a moment, he experienced trembling and his heart was thumping, calming himself he reached into the stones and removed the small skull.
Calmer now, he turned the skull in his hands to examine it. It was small enough to be a child’s he thought. The skull contained a label. The label read B-2. He moved over to the two other stone piles. A brief excavation revealed two further skeletal subjects. Only one of the other skulls was intact. One was badly broken and only the front part remained containing the frontal head plate and the facial maxilla complete with the nasal cavity. The lower jaw was missing. Again, the bones had labels attached.
Above the rock piles were the paintings he had first noticed. They depicted stick-like drawings of people. They appeared to be dancing around a large towering object. He wondered if this was a representation of the single stone monolith outside. There were many paintings of what appeared to be people lying on the ground. For some reason, he assumed the picture to be telling a story about sacrifice as the figures on the ground appeared to be partly dismembered.
Underneath the figures were a set of hand stencils. There were three pairs of hands in total. One large pair, then a slender smaller pair, and finally a child sized set. Each set of hands were positioned directly above one of the rock piles. Alistair realised that the hand stencils were from a family, and the family had been buried within this chamber. He was looking at their graves.
He reached up and placed his own hand against the larger of the hand stencils. His own hand fell short slightly against the ghostly negative shape. He then became aware of a sound. It was the sound of rapid heavy breathing. Low guttural breaths. He snatched his hand away from the cold rock wall. The sound came again. He held out the candelabra before him to scan the chamber. The shadows played tricks with his mind making him think that he could sense movement amongst the stalagmites and stalactites as they cast oddly distorted shadows across the walls and the floor.
His eyes widened and his eyebrows shot upwards. He jumped back from the rock piles. The breathing came again and now it seemed to be all around him. He searched for an animal of some kind. It had to be an animal he kept on telling himself (what else could explain the shredded boxes?). The subterranean wind channelled from outside snuffed out two of the three candles. Immediately he cupped his hand around the one surviving flame to protect it. He fumbled for his box of matches in his jacket pocket. He heard them drop to the floor. He realised that if he moved his hand to try and retrieve the matches, the candle flame would be extinguished plunging him into total darkness, and alone, with the breathing.
Racing along the passage, his heart pounding, his lungs gasping and gulping for air, he detached the lighted candle and dropped the candelabra discarding it underfoot as he lurched onwards towards the exit. The wind outside continued to play with the rusty gate, the creaking hinges were somewhat of a comfort to Alistair, blocking out the sound of the heavy breathing that seemed to follow him all along the passage.
He shot out from the entrance to the cavern dropping the candle and clutching his chest. Quickly he fastened the gate then backed away from it hungrily gulping at the frosty evening air. He kept his eyes on the cave as he walked backwards towards the house. He was half expecting to see some nightmarish creature slither out from the cave. His imagination was working time and a half.
Now almost
calm once more he continued to catch his breath. He leaned against the white plank door to the house as fat flat flakes of snow began to fall. The wind was whipping up again. The gate continued to rattle. Smokey, his adopted cat came to greet him at the door. Rubbing his body against him. He went inside.
After eating his supper, Alistair reloaded the fire with logs and set about building a second fire in the bedroom. He was now beginning to feel more unwell by the hour. His head was starting to ache badly, and his throat had become almost too painful to swallow. He made himself a pot of tea on the stove and settled down by the fireside with Smokey on his lap.
Whilst sipping his tea to ease his sore throat he thought about the cave, the stone graves, and the breathing sound. He had convinced himself that the noises were created by a subterranean wind effect. It was best that he kept this thought as any fanciful thinking would prevent him from ever going near the cave again. And he had to. His curiosity was sparked.
It was almost eleven o’clock. Alistair took his empty teapot and cup out into the kitchen. He glanced out of the window near the sink. The snow was settling thick. In only three hours it had fell to the depth of what he thought looked like three to four inches and there was no sign of it stopping anytime soon. He checked his phone line again. Dead. He decided to retire to his bed, his aching body needed rest. He was shivering. Carrying some logs with him he climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
He lay reading the journal of the reverend George Redgrave some more as the fire crackled noisily in the grate. The final pages were filled with prayers, and incoherent ramblings. One passage caught his eye - Ever since I found them, moved them. I don’t feel as though I’ve ever been alone – he skipped a few incomprehensible sentences and then read – What does it want? I ask over and over to leave me be. Oh Lord what does it want?
A large spark burst from a log in the fire grate causing his heart to skip a beat. Rubbing his head, he closed the journal and snuffed out a bedside candle using his fingertips. He drew the bedcovers up to his chin then settled down to catch some sleep. A good night’s sleep ought to make him feel better he thought.
Alistair didn’t get a good rest. His fever produced a fragmented night’s sleep. A sleep made up of disjointed nightmares. Some of them vivid and frightening. In one dream, he was standing in the centre of Sheffield. The air raid sirens were still wailing their frightening tones, mmMMMMMOOOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
The building in front of him had just been hit. It was now reduced to rubble and flames. He watched as survivors, covered in ash and pulverised concrete dust, and many of them wearing ripped and ragged clothing, staggered around the debris. Alistair suddenly realised that the devastation before him used to be the home of his fiancée, his one and only true love.
Instinctively he ran and climbed on top of the rubble. With his bare hands, he heaved and cast great chunks of concrete from the top of the pile searching for her, praying to God that she had survived.
A woman staggered passed him, she was almost naked and covered in dust mixed with blood. He grabbed her and turned her so he could see her face. It wasn’t Evelyn. The woman wobbled once Alistair had released her. She steadied herself by placing a bloodied hand against the only part of a fragmented wall that was still standing. She left a print of her own hand, like a red marker of death.
He continued to dig for Evelyn shouting her name. When he had removed some of the larger concrete and brick slabs he saw a fragment of bright blue material poking through the layered pulverised bricks. Evelyn’s dress was blue. He clawed and scraped back the bricks. The last few, once removed revealed the body beneath. It might have been Evelyn, but he had no way of knowing. Her face was a skull with dust-grey matted hair. She still wore a hair clip. He backed away from her horrified. She started to move, to sit upright. Her one remaining arm reached out for him. It gripped his ankle tightly. Each tapered bony finger wore a label.
Alistair woke from his dream screaming. He was covered in fever sweat. He opened his eyes. His room was dark. The fire in the grate had reduced to a few glowing embers. He reached over for a glass of water and took a sip. He winced and clenched his teeth. His sore throat felt raw. He pushed back the blanket and lay back on his pillow. He could feel fresh ripples of sleep forming as his consciousness ebbed away.
In a new dream, he found himself tethered on top of what felt like a flat rock. He was naked and was outside. He was cold. So cold. He craned his neck to see what he could. He saw that he was surrounded by a henge of standing stones. A short, stocky man wearing animal skins was standing beside him. He had a bag of sorts made from skins. The man was handing out flat flint stones to a crowd of similarly dressed men, women and children who were all making their way to the centre of the henge.
The man with the flint bag then held his hands up to the sky. He shouts something incomprehensible. The rest of the crowd look upwards. Alistair looked up. He saw the moon. It is tinged with a red glow.
The crowd all start chanting as euphoria appears to spread from one to the other. Then they turn on Alistair. One by one each of them begin to use their flint tool on Alistair’s body. He screamed as he was slowly skinned alive.
******
The next morning Alistair woke feeling worse with his illness. The headaches were more intense. His nose was blocked and his sinuses were heavily congested exacerbating his headaches. The random cycles of sweats then chills were uncomfortable enough, and his muscles ached. Wrapping a woollen bedsheet around himself, and sliding his feet into a pair of slippers, he slowly made his way down to the kitchen.
He intended to make himself a pot of tea as his throat was still painful and very dry. But mostly because the house was freezing cold. Ice clung to the inside of every window. The coldness from the stone flagged floor was already beginning to penetrate upwards through his slippers.
He clumsily cleaned out the wood stove and added fresh kindling. Next, he looked for his box of matches. After a fruitless search, he remembered that he had dropped them in the cave during the previous day’s exploration. Realising he was unable to light the stove, or in fact anything in the house, he slammed down his tea caddy in frustration.
Parting the kitchen curtains, he peered outside through the iced leaded window panes. The snow was deep. Almost a couple of feet in places. The wind had caused drifting. He opened the back door and a pile of snow toppled inwards covering his feet. Shaking the snow off his slippers he closed the door. Smokey entered the kitchen, his meows and purrs signified that he was hungry again.
Feeling disheartened after imagining what a nice treat a pot of hot tea and a fried kipper would have been, Alistair went over to the small pantry to collect a bottle of milk. He poured some into a saucer on the kitchen floor. Smokey lapped it up greedily.
Still wrapped in his bedclothes Alistair searched high and low for a second box of matches. He poked about in the dead fire grates for a trace of a glowing cinder. He thought if he found one he might be able to use it to coax the woodstove into life. There was none. What was he supposed to do now he pondered? Rub sticks together like a caveman?
He tried his phone line again but it was still dead, as were the lights and other electrics in the house. The wind had picked up again, it was whipping around the house cooling it down even further. He thought that the best course of action was to go back to his bed, and keep as warm as he could. He was feeling terrible. He desperately hoped that his power and communication lines would soon be remedied, but the weather outside probably meant more delays.
He weakly carried a ceramic jug over to the sink, he intended to fill it with water so that he could place it by his bedside. Always best to keep your fluids up, he remembered his doctor once telling him. He turned the tap but nothing came out. The pipes must be frozen. He returned to the pantry and took the only remaining milk and some sliced ham. He returned to his bed. After eating a couple of slices of ham, he settled back into his bed and fell into a spate of broken sleep
.
He woke with a hacking cough. Each cough made his head throb. The light was failing in the bedroom. He picked up his wristwatch from the bedside cabinet. He could barely make out that it read 3:30. He had slept most of the day. He Took hold of the half bottle of milk and took small sips, small enough that his aching throat would allow. He used his only remaining handkerchief to clear his nose.
Glancing at the dead fire grate, he realised that he had to go back into the cave to find the matches. His illness was steadily getting worse. He might catch his death he thought If he didn’t get himself warm. And he would have to do it whilst he still had the strength. But not tonight. The weather was frightful. And the night had almost fallen. He would try in the morning. As he thought about this course of action he became aware of a sound.
Lying with the bedclothes pulled tightly around his head, partly to keep himself warm, but mostly to obscure the ghastly sounds that had begun to fill his bedroom. Alistair lay paralysed with fear. The breathing had started suddenly. The same bestial snorts and pants that had frightened him whilst he was in the cave. They sounded as though they were just outside of his bedroom window. The ancient ash, all old and gnarled was the only thing that could provide height for any creature outside that wanted to taunt him. And taunt him it did.
He didn’t dare look across to the window. With only the ghost of the day’s light lingering he feared that if he did look he might see it. The thing that his subconscious mind had concocted back in the cave. The thing that he had been trying so desperately hard to push back further and further into the dark crepuscular recesses of his mind, but was failing with every new second to do so. “Away!” he croaked hoarsely, “for pity’s sake, leave me be!”
Olde Tudor Page 4