The thing climbing up John’s torso had no feeling of weight—just a deep cold that ate into John’s bones and rendered him immobile, unable to so much as twitch as the guttural chanting rose, and rose again, and the thing—The Just One—climbed higher. It reached his chest, his neck. John felt tentacles tickle at his chin, then ice cold lips pressed against his own and started to suck.
A weakness spread fast, as if his whole fiber was pouring out and into the apparition. And as he weakened, so the thing gained weight, grew substantial—grew heavy against his chest, so much so that he was forced to his knees, then all the way to the ground as darkness and cold and a deep, bottomless despair ate at his soul and dragged him away.
^
Carole still felt like she was wading in thick treacle, but the hunched apparition had no problems. It strode forward, still in that bent-over gait she’d seen out on the moor and in the graveyard. It made straight for the ritual circle.
John was on the ground, something with too many legs and not enough body wrapped around his chest and clamped face to face at his mouth. He wasn’t moving, although she saw that the attacking thing’s body swelled and deflated—as if it were feeding.
“John!” she cried out again, but her voice was lost among the roar and din of the chanting. She could only watch as the hunched man strode into the ritual circle to go to the aid of his grandson. His form bent and started to tear at the Just One with arms that were too insubstantial to do much damage. The chanting rose to another level, sending dust and earth patterning down from the cellar roof. Blacklaw moved feebly in Carole’s arms, looking firstly up at her, then over to the circle. The hunched man chose that moment to look around, giving Carole and Blacklaw a good look at his face.
“Fraser!” Blacklaw shouted. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
Like a man half his age, Blacklaw stood and broke into a run.
The chanting faltered as he reached the circle. Without a pause he threw himself down on John, tearing and mauling at the six-legged thing that thrashed and squirmed but could not escape from the attack. It started once again to lose solidity, become almost transparent. The hunched figure—Fraser—joined Blacklaw, their attack getting more frenzied.
The chanting failed and cut off, like a needle lifted from a vinyl record, and all that could be heard was Blacklaw’s breath, heavy and panting as he quickly weakened.
“Help me, Fraser,” Carole heard him say. “I’m weakening.”
The hunched figure’s own attack became even more frenzied, and finally started to have more effect, tearing the Just One into thin wisps that were quickly dissipated in the slight breeze that blew through the cellar.
There was one, last, despairing scream, then Carole found she could move freely. The neon strip overhead blazed into brilliance, momentarily blinding her.
When she blinked and ran to the circle it was to find John trying weakly to sit up. Blacklaw lay on his back, dead center in the circle, a smile on his face as his dead eyes stared at the ceiling.
= 23 '
John’s recuperation was a long one, and he was put under doctor’s orders not to travel. They stayed in the house on the moor, and were well looked after by the McKinnons, despite the fact that the housekeepers were clearly grieving for their “Maister.”
Two days after Blacklaw’s quiet funeral in the old stone church on the loch she found John in the library. The box of reel-to-reel tapes, mostly burned up, was sitting on top of the fire, and he was feeding the flames with pages from The Twelve Concordances of the Red Serpent.
“I think I’ve got it straight in my head now,” he said softly as she went to sit beside him. “It was never old Hugh in the library—his ritual all those years ago called up that thing, the Just One, and it has been skittering around in here looking for freedom ever since. And I think it was keeping Hugh out—wandering the moors until such time as an opportunity arose to reverse his mistake—an opportunity I gave him by using that blasted ritual.”
“Do you think it’s gone?” Carole asked. “Do you think they’re all gone?”
John looked up at the rafters, then stared into the flames. “I don’t know. But maybe someone should stay here to make sure?”
She took his hand, and together they fed the last pages of The Twelve Concordances of the Red Serpent into the greedy fire.
About the Author
WILLIAM MEIKLE is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with fifteen novels published in the genre press and over 250 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company.
He has described himself as “A psyche with a deep love of the weird in its most basic forms, and the urge to beat up monsters.” More at williammeikle.com
About the Artist
M. WAYNE MILLER is an illustrator for numerous book and magazine publishers as well as several role-playing game publishers. His list of clients includes Dark Renaissance Press, Tor/Forge, Dark Regions Press, Marietta Publishing, LORE Publishing, Thunderstorm Books, Genius Publishing, Journalstone Publishing, Gamewick Games, Dias Ex Machina, Chaosium, and Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show. Wayne continues his quest to learn and grow as an artist and illustrator. He lives in Greensboro, NC, with his wife, Carmen, and a very large cat.
The House on the Moor Page 10