After a while John closed the laptop.
“Are you done?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I know what I have to do now,” he said. He held up a sheet of paper covered in his crabbed handwriting.
“The ritual in the old book is slightly different from the ones I’ve found online—it’s been transcribed wrong somewhere at one end or the other. I believe that’s why it rebounded on Granddad and killed him. I wonder if he even knew what he was doing? If he’d done some research he’d have found it was dangerous—but maybe that was the point? Anyway, the experts in this kind of stuff all say the same thing—it’s meant to summon the unquiet dead.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” Carole replied, trying, and failing, to get a laugh from John. He had his head down, intently studying the sheet of paper.
“I’m going to do it, Carole,” he said softly. “I’m going to talk to Granddad Hugh.”
^
He wasn’t to be dissuaded. He got up from the table, ignoring Carole’s protestations, and headed for the door.
“Wait!” she shouted. “Just think rationally about this for a minute would you?”
“Rationality has got nothing to do with this, sweetheart,” he said from the door. “This is my heart talking, and it knows what it wants.”
By the time Carole got to the door, John was already in the library, standing next to the fireplace. He started to read from his notes, a singsong voice that gained in strength and volume as he got into the rhythm of it.
“Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
“Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.”
John’s voice rang and echoed, filling the room. Something beneath them responded; a pounding like a drumbeat sent vibrations running through Carole’s body and set her teeth on edge.
John’s chant changed, from Latin to something she didn’t recognize but that sounded distinctly Scottish,
“Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.”
The drumbeat got louder. Dust disturbed by the vibration drifted down from the rafters to fall around them. Voices seemed to rise from below to join in as John continued, a repeat of the previous phrase sung now by a choir, a throng, a myriad of singers in a chorus that rang and bellowed like a huge church organ.
“Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.”
Carole staggered, almost fell, buffeted by a cold wind that blew through the library like a gale, sending books flying off the shelves to flutter like wounded birds before crashing to the ground and lying still.
The chorus rose to one final cry.
“Dhumna Ort!”
The floor bucked and swayed, and once again Carole almost fell. She stumbled out of the library, into the hall and through into the dining room. She was just in time to see a hunched figure turn and walk away from the big bay window and off round the corner of the house. When she went over to look, a thin film of ice on the glass was already starting to melt.
= 20 '
John stood in the suddenly quiet-again library, waiting for a sign. Nothing moved apart from the drifting dust dancing in the afternoon sunbeams.
“What the blazes do you think you are doing?”
Blacklaw, still in his pajamas and wrapped in a dressing gown several sizes too big for him, stood in the library doorway supported by the old butler.
“It didn’t work,” John said. “There’s something I’m not seeing.”
Blacklaw shook his head, sadly, his anger suddenly dissipated.
“Do you think I haven’t tried, boy?” he said softly. “Come through to the front room. McKinnon will fetch us a drink and you can tell me.”
John followed the old man into the sitting room. Carole stood there, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf in the breeze. John went over quickly and took her into a hug.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s over. It didn’t work.”
Carole held him tight, then pushed him away, looking into his eyes.
“Just don’t try anything like that again, okay? No more; we’re done here.”
John wasn’t sure of that, not by a long chalk, but she needed to hear something, so he agreed.
“Yes. We’re done.”
McKinnon arrived on cue with the Scotch.
“Let’s have a drink,” John said. “I think we both need one.”
He saw her glance, twice, at the bay window before she went to a dining chair and sat down. Blacklaw took his usual seat at the end of the table, and John sat as close as he could to Carole, taking her hand. With her free hand she downed a large Scotch in one gulp and motioned for the butler to pour another.
She’s even more spooked than I am. Maybe she’s right. Maybe we should be done here.
John took a slug of his own Scotch and turned to Blacklaw.
“So you’ve tried before?”
“Many times,” the old man replied. “Especially in the immediate years after Hugh’s passing. You have got a far more energetic response that I have ever managed. But the end result is much the same—he never speaks.”
John didn’t say anything, but switched on his personal recorder and played it back.
“I recorded this earlier—you must have been well on your way back from church by this time.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” Hugh’s voice said, and Blacklaw went white as a sheet, all color draining from his face.
“This is some kind of a trick. It must be.”
“No trick,” John said. “I didn’t hear a voice at the time, but it’s here on the recording, clear as day.”
Blacklaw knocked back his own Scotch and poured another from the bottle McKinnon had left on the table.
“What about this time?” he said softly.
John shook his head. “I didn’t set the recorder running. But we should try again,” he said, realizing even as he said it that he’d just made a promise to Carole to let things lie.
“No,” Carole said loudly at his side. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“And neither do I,” Blacklaw added. “You might not have noticed, but it felt like you nearly brought on an earthquake just now. Let the old boy rest. Please?
John thought it was a strange kind of rest that involved skittering and rustling around an old library for decades, but could see that the other two were resolved in their stance and said nothing.
^
Blacklaw changed the subject.
“I had another reason for inviting you here,” he said. “Beyond telling you of Hugh’s final hours, that is. As you can see, I’m getting on a bit, and getting worse every day now. I don’t have long left to me—and I have no family of my own to speak of. Hugh was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother—and that’s why I’m leaving this house to you when I go.”
It had come so suddenly that John didn’t know how to reply. He looked the old man in the eye, looking for any sign that it was a joke, but Blacklaw was deadly serious.
“There’ll also be some money from the estate—enough to pay for the annual upkeep, I shouldn’t wonder. I had a new will made up after you contacted me, so everything is legal and above board. There are two caveats. I want to be buried beside your granddad in the churchyard, overlooking the view. The only other stipulation I have is that the McKinnons are allowed to see out their own lives in this place, which is their home as much as it is mine; but beyond that, it will be yours to do with as you like.”
“We can’t accept it,” Carole said, but Blacklaw waved her away.
“You can, and you will. Look at the pair of you. When you came here on Friday it seemed you were close to ripping each other’s throats out. You were tense, moody and irritable—just like every other city dweller I’ve ever met. Now look at you. Admit it—you’re happy. You’re relaxed, even despite the experiences, real or imagined, of t
he weekend.”
John had to admit that the old man had a point. He hadn’t felt so alive for a long time—and he hadn’t even realized he was still holding Carole’s hand, and had her head rested on his shoulder.
“This place is good for whatever ails a person,” Blacklaw said. “It’s worth putting up with the occasional noise in the library from your grandfather. Look—I know it’s a lot to take in, and I’m off for another lie-down. I’ve had more than enough excitement today already. Take some time to think it over—we’ll talk again over dinner this evening.”
McKinnon had once again divined his master’s needs and was standing at the door. He came over to the table, helped the old man to his feet, and they shuffled off together into the hallway and out of sight.
Blacklaw’s bombshell had driven all other thought’s from John’s head. “Well, I didn’t expect that,” he said.
“We can’t take it,” Carole replied. “What are we going to do with a place like this?”
“We could move here?” John said, and got a laugh.
“What, you’d give up your trips to the pub? No more curries, no theatre, no cinema—no friends. Oh yes—I can see that happening.”
“Perhaps he was right,” John said quietly. “Perhaps we do need to think this over.”
Carole poured herself another Scotch.
“Maybe we could rent it out—or sell it on,” she said. “It’s probably worth less than a one-bedroom flat in Mayfair, but it would be something. We’d have to get the cellar floor cleared, though. Any buyer would run a mile at the idea that Satanic rituals had been performed in his basement.”
Carole kept talking about possible buyers, but John had stopped listening.
The cellar—I forgot about that. Any ritual has to take place within the prescribed circle—it says so in the book. That’s where Granddad died—and that’s where I’ll be able to talk to him.
= 21 '
Carole drank more Scotch than was good for her—mainly to try to rid herself of the feeling that the Hunched Man was somehow focusing its attentions on her in particular, and also to cope with the shock of learning of their forthcoming inheritance. Of course, it might be years away yet—more probably sooner given Blacklaw’s obvious ill health—but the thought that John might actually want to move to this place filled her with consuming dread.
When she stood from the table, her legs threatened to give way beneath her, and John had to lend a shoulder for her to lean against.
“I think I need a kip before dinner,” she said, slurring her words rather more than she would have liked. The Scotch had obviously won in the battle for her sobriety.
“I think we could both do with a bit less excitement,” John replied.
She let him half-lead, half-carry her upstairs. She almost fell into the bedroom, then collapsed, fully clothed on top of the covers.
She was asleep in seconds.
^
She woke in darkness, having no idea how long she’d slept. Her mouth felt like something small and furry had slept in it and her head pounded with the onset of an instant hangover. She rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. A splash of water on her face made her feel almost human. She turned back to the darkness of the bedroom.
“God. Why do you let me do this to myself?”
It was only when there was no answer that she realized John had left her on her own again. She wasn’t surprised—she’d drunk most of the Scotch on her own and had passed out as soon as she’d hit the pillows. He was probably still stoked about his earlier research and experience.
I should never have had so much whiskey.
She stepped into the bedroom then quickly retreated back under the light in the bathroom. Despite the fact that the bedroom had appeared quiet and empty, she had a strong feeling she was not alone.
Shadows shifted in the bedroom and there was a soft thump, as if someone had fallen against a piece of furniture.
“John? Is that you?”
She stepped forward, but not too far, unwilling to leave the lit bathroom for the darkness in the main room. From her position she was looking directly at the tall mirror in the far corner. She saw her own pale face looking back at her—just as a shadow passed between her and the mirror—not enough to block her view completely, but enough to let her know she was not alone. She stepped back, intending to shut herself in the bathroom.
At the same instant someone whispered in her ear, a soft Scottish voice.
“Hurry.”
She felt a soft kiss on her cheek, and smelled heather flowers. A shadow passed in front of the mirror again, then she really was alone.
She stood there in silence for several seconds, listening to her heart pound in her ears. When she calmed she realized she could still hear a drumbeat. It came from somewhere far below, and as she noticed it, John’s voice rose in a chant to join in.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
John was in the cellar—and he had started the ritual.
^
“You bloody idiot!” she shouted at the top of her voice as she ran out into the hallway. Across the landing, Blacklaw’s bedroom door opened and he looked out, bleary-eyes and as pale as any ghost.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s John,” she shouted, heading for the stairs. “He’s doing that bloody ritual again—in the cellar.”
Then there was no more time for talk.
Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.
The chant filled the house and something in the cellar responded; a pounding like a drumbeat sent vibrations running through the staircase. She felt it thrum in the banister as she almost threw herself downstairs.
“Stop, John. Please, stop!”
Either he didn’t hear, or he chose not to.
John’s chant changed to the Scottish section she’d heard before.
Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.
The drumbeat got louder as she reached the cellar door. A chill wind blew through the hallway, making it a struggle for her to stay on her feet. Voices rose from below to join in the chorus as John continued, a repeat of the previous phrase sung now by a choir of guttural voices.
Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.
She took the stairs down—three, four at a time—and launched herself into the cellar just as the voices rose in one final cry.
Dhumna Ort!
= 22 '
John heard Carole call out, but was too caught up in the moment to reply. The decision had been an easy one—he’d watched Carole sleep for a while, but the thought of the cellar and what might wait there for him had consumed him.
Let’s get this done.
Once he’d made the decision, it had only been a matter of minutes before he made his way down to the cellar with his sheet of notes. He hadn’t hesitated in stepping into the circle, despite a sudden chill that gripped him hard. The chant had poured out of him in one easy, almost breathless, song.
And now he stood in the center of the ritual circle.
Waiting.
^
The first sign came with the now-instantly recognizable skittering noise in the darkest corner of the room. The neon light overhead flickered then dimmed, thickening the shadows. The skittering took advantage of the extra gloom to move closer, although there was still nothing visible.
“John, come out. Please come out,” Carole said, but she sounded far away, inconsequential, and when he looked in her direction it was like looking down the wrong end of a telescope to see a figure struggling to make headway, as if battling a strong wind. As he watched, old Blacklaw, still in his pajamas, joined Carole at the foot of the stairs, and the two of them now joined in calling out to him.
Their words were lost in a rising din as a new chorus of deep, guttural chanting accompanied the skittering
. A coarse madrigal filled the cellar with a song of longing and pain.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
A gray shape moved through the shadows, coming closer.
“Hugh? Granddad?” John said.
The skittering increased to frenzied scratching. The gray thing came forward to the edge of the circle—too low to the ground to be anything human, wispy and insubstantial, but thickening with every repeat of the deep chant.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
A face, wizened and wrinkled, more rodent than man, looked up at John. A bald scabrous head sat on a bulbous body from which sprouted half a dozen hairy, almost insect-like legs. A mass of moist tentacles in a fringe around the thing’s neck writhed and squirmed like a nest of snakes. Only the eyes were remotely human, although they were fully black, all pupil. They held John’s gaze with a stare that spoke of an insatiable hunger as it scurried over the outer ring and into the circle, coming straight for him.
^
Carole saw the thing reach John’s ankles and start to climb up his body.
“John!” she shouted, but it was as if her voice was lost in a wind, swallowed by the chanting which rang all around them, setting the vaulted cellar ringing like a great bell.
She managed to turn her head to look at Blacklaw, but it was immediately obvious the old man would be no help. His eyelids fluttered, the eyes below rolling in their sockets, and she had to move quickly as he fell towards her. She caught him in her arms, and was about to lay him on the floor when a hunched shadow loomed over them both.
She smelled heather flowers again, and felt the touch of a soft kiss on her cheek.
“Stay here,” the soft Scottish voice whispered in her ear. She looked up to see a spectral form loom above them. It was thin and unsubstantial, like thin gauze, but one facet was clear as day.
It had John’s face.
^
The House on the Moor Page 9